


The Guns of Dragonstone

by LeBAMF



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, War of the Five Kings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2018-10-04 07:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 167,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10271771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeBAMF/pseuds/LeBAMF
Summary: The War of Five Kings changes irrevocably when a new weapon is introduced to Westeros from across the seas. A weapon that will change the rules of warfare forever. Gunpowder.





	1. Chapter 1 (Loras, Catelyn, Davos)

**The Knight of Flowers**

Loras rode his destrier back down the line for the fourth time. He was eager. His knights were impatient. He had left Renly's embrace early in the morning to ready himself for a battle, for his first battle. The vanguard was ready near five thousand knights and horses armed and armored and ready to crush this would-be-usurper like his father had crushed King Robert at Ashford. All they needed was the dawn, for when the sun rose the battle would begin.

Loras turned to ride for a fifth time this time he let his mount walk slowly as he watched the fleeting bits of mist twist in the predawn gloom. _Soon I'll prove myself, soon men like Tarly will no longer look down on me simply for being born too late to fight in the rebellions_. Shouting and cheering drew Loras' attention to the right flank where the Baratheon stag had just positioned itself. Underneath the great banner Loras saw Tarly, Emmon, Robar, Brienne, Lady Stark and best of all Renly. Loras smiled. _Renly will watch me wipe out these traitors_. _Everyone will see my true mettle_.

If Renly was at the right then dawn was not far away. His lover had always been a late sleeper. Loras tugged on the reins pulling his stallion around and rode to the center of the vanguard where his captains waited.

Still smiling he approached his captains. "My lords, the dawn approaches so let us be ready. At the sound of the trumpet let us be off to smash these rebels. For King Renly!"

"For King Renly!"

His captains had departed leaving Loras alone at the head of five thousand men, standing in a mist shrouded field. He stared east towards the enemy, towards the dawn, towards glory. His squire waited on him a trumpet at the ready. Loras shifted in his saddle, he suddenly needed to piss, to shit, to drink, to hold Renly one more time. _Breath Loras breath you've trained for this for your whole life, you're ready and nothing will stop you._ The sun peaked above the horizon, for a moment Loras could see the little trenches and palisades Stannis had built to protect his fishermen. Then the light blinded him.

Loras raised his lance, kicked back his spurs and let his destrier lunged forward. "Now! For King Renly!"

Obedient as ever his squire sounded the trumpet, the sound of which was quickly drowned by hundreds more instruments, thousands of shouts, and tens of thousands of hooves.

Now this this was what battle should be, the feel of a horse beneath you, a lance in your hand, and army at your back, and an enemy to kill.

"Renly! RENLY! KING RENLY!"

Now as he rode closer he saw it was not mist that covered the field below Storm's End, but rather it was smoke rising from the trenches and pits before Stannis' host. Loras turned in his saddle to face _his_ van. "KILL THEM!" he cried, a shout that was quickly followed by the chivalry of the south.

"Kill."

"KILL."

"KILL!"

The enemy responded as one. "OURS IS THE FURY! STANNIS KING!"

He turned again towards the enemy and saw that the plain which had seemed so wide only moments before was now almost all behind him. The hill upon which Stannis' army was arrayed stood before him. His quick eyes caught a shadow in the ground and, guided by instinct, he urged his stallion into jump and easily avoided the poorly hidden trench, though others behind him were not so lucky. Another trench and another and another and dozens of small pits meant to break the legs of a horse.

Along the slopes of the hill loomed lines of palisades near six feet tall and behind them hid the fishermen of the Narrow Sea armed with clubs and shortspears and tridents. Loras laughed as he rode, he was so close, soon the killing would begin. Suddenly several sections of palisade collapsed. Loras' eyes were drawn towards the nearest as he urged his stallion toward the gap. _The fools can't even make a proper wall_. As he rode closer he could now see that past the breach was some kind of long metal barrel and gathered behind it was a dozen men, some of them foreigners by their dress, and all save but one had covered their ears, and that last man held a gently smoking brand. That was all Loras saw before the world was consumed by fire and smoke and blood.

It suddenly dawned upon Loras that he was lying face first on the ground. _Where's my horse_? With great difficulty Loras struggled to his feet, he saw the head of his horse sitting a few feet away. He laughed it just looked so funny. He laughed so hard he started crying. His left arm felt queer. His sword he needed his sword how else was he supposed to fight? His sword was gone but there was half of one on the ground that would have to do. It took an eternity for Loras to take up the sword, an eternity punctuated by cracks of sound, the hiss of arrows, and gouts of flame. Something hit him. It hurt blood began to pour from a wound in his stomach. A maester he had to find a maester. _There's a maester in the camp_. _I must go to the camp_. _Renly will laugh when he sees I've gotten blood and dirt on my armor_.

So Loras turned and walked away from the battle, he walked through a field of the dead and the dying. Man and horse alike lay dead, their bodies ripped apart as if an army of giants had descended upon them. That thought made Loras start laughing again.

"An army of giants like from a tale of Garth Greenhand!"

Loras stumbled through the smoke laughing as he went. But then there was no more smoke. The shock of it made him fall. He wanted to stand but he suddenly felt so tired and the grass was so soft, surely it would be alright if he just slept for a few moments. He lay on the grass breathing slowly he chuckled again as red bubbles came out of his nose. Oh there was Renly wearing his green armor and that ridiculous helmet. Loras smiled at his lover, he tried to stand up again but he couldn't, his left arm wouldn't do anything. So he just looked at Renly, smiled. "I love you."

And then he closed his eyes.

**Catelyn**

Lord Renly made a magnificent sight to be sure, with his emerald armor, jet encrusted cloak of cloth-of-gold, and antlered helm. He was flanked by Sers Emmon the Yellow and Robar the Red, with Brienne the Blue riding behind holding his great banner, the crowned black stag of Baratheon on gold. Of his greatest lords only Randyll Tarly remained with Lord Renly, glowering over the dishonor he had suffered in not being passed over for command of the van in favor of Ser Loras the Knight of Flowers, the other lords had already left to their respective commands.

Renly mounted his war horse. "Lady Stark how kind of you to join us on this fine morn."

"You had not left me much choice," Catelyn paused. "My lord."

Renly frowned at that but made no comment. "Come my lords let us make haste for there is a battle to be fought this morn." He spurred onwards through the camp.

As Catelyn followed Renly in a winding path through the heart of the camp she saw some last few knights readying themselves, sharpening swords and axes, squires securing armor and saddling horses, all this done in the ruins of what must have been a truly terrible revel, empty barrels and casks, the remains of pork and venison, and pools of vomit. The sight of so much waste made bile rise in her throat. _While the knights of summer feast my son storms the castles of the west, but these knights of summer will learn what true battle is soon enough._

Those knights who were late in their preparations bowed low as their king rode past, this seemed to spur them onwards as they redoubled their efforts to arms themselves and to join their brothers-in-arms outside the camp, on the wide field before Storm's End. Renly seemed willing to stop constantly to speak with these latecomers trading tall tales and jests with them before riding another dozen paces only to stop again. Catelyn saw Tarly begin tapping his saddle in impatience if possible his glowering deepened even further.

At long last Renly's wandering path led them out of the the camp following a small path, worn by countless thousands of men, along the reverse of a wide low hill. Renly then led them into an ascent to take up his position on the right of his host. The great host of the south waited on their king, and from here on the hill Catelyn could see almost the whole of the army of summer, she saw the golden tree of Rowan in the center, the black nightingales of Caron on the left, the green turtle of Estermont in the rear, and the golden rose of Tyrell in the van and almost everywhere else. It seemed for every stag there was a rose.

And then they waited for dawn was not yet here. The shuffling of men and horses seemed cold and awkward. A few times the men tried to start a song, but no matter how bawdy or ribald, the voices would soon wither and die. Catelyn shivered not from the cold but from anticipation, this was somehow worse than the Whispering Wood.

And then the sun rose. "Gods," swore Ser Wendel. Catelyn could not help but agree twenty thousand men armored and ahorse shining in the morning sun made for an awesome sight. Rank upon rank of steel plate and raised banners and men so many men. Their lances made a forest of half the plain. Against this Lord Stannis had rallied his men along a low ridge north of Storm's End with his back against the sea. It seemed he had made some manner of fortification, likely trenches and a small palisade, but the rising sun and a fog of smoke made it hard to see any details . Catelyn knew this was a strong position but it would not be enough. _Stannis is outnumbered more than three to one, his paltry force of sellswords and levies cannot stand against these knights of summer_. _Renly will ride them down and kill his brother and then he will destroy the Lannisters and then he will come for Robb._

Horns blew and trumpets sounded, startling Catelyn out of her reverie, as the van led by Loras Tyrell let forth a mighty shout and surged forth across the plain, their hooves like thunder. Wendel Manderly, Hallis Mollen and the rest of her guard cried out in jealousy as did the rest of Renly's host. _Do they truly wish to join in and start such a slaughter_?

Renly laughed. "Look at them ride my lords! I feel almost sorry to hold you back from earning fresh glory."

"Not much glory in riding down fishermen your grace," said Emmon Cuy.

"Too true Ser Emmon, too true. Alas my brother is too poor to field a host worthy of your valor. I suppose we must make do with the dregs he has brought. No matter today Stannis, tomorrow Joffrey! All the pretenders will fall!" Renly's lords laughed alongside him, all save Lord Tarly who seemed oddly worried.

Catelyn turned from the jubilant Renly towards the glum warrior. "What so ails you my lord?"

Tarly frowned as he peered forward, shading his eyes trying to get a better look and Stannis' camp. "This is wrong, Stannis is no fool, he wouldn't fight unless he thought he could win. But I am not sure what his plan is," he snorted. "And the boy has neglected to maintain his formation."

Catelyn returned her view to the van, now half way across the field, what was once a tight mass of horse and men had spread out into several smaller clumps all racing towards the blinding sunlight and smothering smoke that shrouded Stannis' host.

Parmen Crane rode towards them. "Come now Tarly, it's not so bad as that men should be eager for a fight. Why I bet half the rebels have already fled or shit themselves." This roused another bout of mirth from the lordlings, save from Tarly only glowered more than ever.

Catelyn took that moment to ride further down the slope, away from the lords, she gazed towards the sunrise, towards men who were doomed to die. _Was I always so melancholy? Or did losing Ned change me?_ The van was within bowshot of Stannis now. _They look so small like one of Bran's toys_.

A sound like thunder filled the air bringing with it a shocked silence from the knights of summer. Catelyn knew not what this sound had come from, but she knew where, it had come from the host of Stannis Baratheon. The sun was still too low on the horizon and the smoke to thick to let her see what was happening, but she could just make out a half-dozen bursts of flame appearing from the midst of Stannis' host.

"What in Seven Hells was that?" Asked some lordling amidst the murmuring behind her.

This wind blew the smoke inland hiding yet more of the battlefield and with it the entierty of the van. Barely a moment had passed when a second sound filled the air, just as loud as the first but somehow sharper and less deep. Seconds later more smoke shrouded the field thickening the clouds which hid the van from sight. There were fifteen thousand men watching the field and none made a sound as more cracks filled the air almost, but not quite, covering the screams of men and horses.

Something stirred in the smoke provoking a chorus of cries until they saw it was only a horse, a horse with no rider, a horse galloping away from the battle. Silence returned as the horse ran through the gap between the right and the center naught but fifty paces from where Catelyn waited. It was covered in blood.

A second blast of thunder came from the field and the smoke thickened. Now more shapes stirred in the smoke, a man with only one arm wielding a broken sword, a horse carrying a headless and armless stump in place of a knight, men who seemed uninjured but walked as if brained by a mace, and other men who ran or rode as if demons from the Seven Hells pursued them.

She looked towards where Renly had been only to see him riding forward into the smoke. Lord Tarly seemed to shake himself. "Dickon!" He called and his squire rode toward him. "Find Lord Estermont, tell him that his grace has commanded that he rally these cravens."

"Yes my lord."

But before Lord Tarly could do anymore another crash of thunder filled the air, and Catelyn saw something queer as if the gods had decided to take a quill and draw a line through the air. The line flew straight through the smoke, through the air, and into the center of the host where it sent men, horses, steel, earth, blood, and bone flying through the air.

Men and horses alike began to scream, some men turned to flee, while others, Renly among them, began a screaming charge. A dozen more lines crossed the sky sending fountain of gore into the sky like crimson offerings to a cruel god.

Tarly had ridden up beside her. "Gods be dam-"

If Randyll Tarly ever finished his curse Catelyn never heard it. Her eyes were somehow filled by both darkness and light, while sound louder than anything she had ever heard filled her ears, and she was idly aware that she was falling. No. That she had fallen. Her wrist hurt. Her eyes hurt. Her ears hurt. _Why does it hurt_? _Who am I asking_? As her vision cleared she saw Randyll he was bleeding, she tore her gown for a bandage, ignoring the pain in her wrist, ignoring her tears. _When did I start crying_? She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't work right, so she crawled towards the southron lord, and tried to staunch the bleeding.

"Too much blood," Catelyn tore more of her gown. "Too much blood." Randyll was sobbing so She rubbed his head trying to calm him, "Too much blood. Everything will be alright. I'm here. Too much blood."

"Too much blood."

"Too much blood."

Then a massive blast of sound like nothing she had ever heard threw her to the ground. Catelyn laid on her back watching smoke and earth rise high into the sky and then the earth began to fall.

Someone was shouting at her. "M'lady! M'lady!"

"Ned?" _Was Ned here_? _Here to take her back home, back to Winterfell, back to their babes_. But no it was Hallis Mollen. He was shaking her. Randyll wasn't sobbing, she was. Randyll was dead. His waist ended in a mass of blood and gore. Bile rose in her throat and came out covering herself and poor Hallis.

"M'lady we must go!"

Catelyn stared at the northern warrior. Her face hurt, Hallis had slapped her she remembered. She closed her eyes and mustered all her strength and nodded. She tried to stand but she collapsed, so instead Hallis picked her up and carried her back down the hill towards the camp. Ser Wendel waited for them with horses, Hallis tried to put her in a saddle but she fell again. Hallis cursed and mounted with the aid of another Catelyn sitting before him like a child.

As Hallis spurred his horse away from the battle Catelyn immediately started to slide off.

Hallis grabbed her and shoved her. "Grip it! Squeeze with your legs!'

Catelyn felt a chill come over her. "I. I can't. Oh gods I can't." She shuddered tears sliding down her cheeks. "I can't feel my legs."

**Davos**

Davos had, by the command of King Stannis, taken command of a company of dragonmen on the left of the host. The dragonmen were all lowborn like Davos himself was once, drawn from the farmers and fisherfolk of Dragonstone and the other isles of the Narrow Sea. They had all been trained in the use of the new weapons that the foreigners had brought with them and later sold to King Stannis.

It had not taken long for a the foreigners to teach the smiths of Dragonstone to make more of these weapons when for whatever reason most of them had declined to return home with their comrades. The weapons were strange things like an odd mix between a club and a crossbow what they were called in the twisting tongue of the foreigners he knew not but the men, and Davos himself for that matter, called them and their larger crueler kin dragons. _Fear not my lords_ , the king had said, _like Aegon before me dragons shall win me my kingdom_. Those words Stannis had oft said in one form or another ever since they had sailed from Dragonstone to lay siege to Storm's End. _I worry his grace means to convince himself of that as much as he means to assure our confidence_.

Hunkered down behind the palisade and smothered by smoke rising from the smoke bombs, which lined the trenches and filled the pits working hard to hide King Stannis' smaller army from the rebels, Davos could only see a few dozen yards in either direction. Too his left were rank upon rank of dragonmen, and behind them levies armed motley mix of spears and axes and bows and crossbows, and in reserve the household knights of Celtigar, Velaryon, Bar Emmon, Massey, and Baratheon. But to his right lay the great behemoth of the dragon called _Balerion_ which like it's namesake it was of monstrous size. Crewed by a squad led by a foreigner _Balerion_ would be lucky to manage a shot a minute but it would fire a ball of iron the size of a mans head or else be loaded with enough scrap iron and nails to build a ship.

The men beside Davos had trained for long months to be able to shoot twice or thrice a minute, slow very slow compared to the archers who stood higher on the hill or even the Myrish crossbowmen on the right, but when each shot would go through chain or plate like it was a wool shirt it didn't matter. Almost worse than the shear power wielded by the dragons was the noise and the fire, combined this had been enough to grant them their nickname, and like their namesakes the sound and fire was often enough to send men and horses running, particularly if they'd never encountered dragons before. Just like the men who had taken the field opposite of Davos. But they were so many, at least twenty thousand if they were a dozen. Long odds for the six thousand men his king had brought.

Davos heard the sound of prayers from down the line. He turned and saw Septons Merrik and Cerrik, twins from Claw Isle, walked the lines offering their blessings to those who kept the Seven, but in their wake like a red shadow lurked the lady Melisandre, she offered similar prayers for those converts she had won amongst the men of Dragonstone, men like his son Mathos. Davos thanked the gods that even though the king gave her permission to burn her nightfires and sing her prayers and preach her faith and that even after Queen Selyse had converted, that Stannis had not been swayed from the Seven. Before he had set sail Maester Cressen had confided in Davos that he had planned to poison the red woman if she had succeeded in converting the king. Davos had been shocked by the duplicity of the old maester, but he could not condemn him. The mere presence of the red woman set Davos' teeth on edge. As Davos watched she turned to look at Davos seeming to have sensed his staring. He quickly turned away looking back across the field.

The smoke seemed to grow more solid as the light grew behind him. The enemy seemed to grow eager Davos heard bits and pieces of song flutter over the field and when the sun rose it was greeted by cheering and trumpets and the endless pounding of thousands of hooves. The rebels came quickly not quite a gallop, they would save that for the final stretch, but still too quickly for Davos. The thundering hooves and trumpets and shouts grew louder and louder. Davos heard them start a chant.

"Kill."

"KILL."

"KILL!"

And as one the host of Dragonstone shouted back. "OURS IS THE FURY! STANNIS KING!"

Davos saw one knight at the front, his armor bedecked in sapphires and silver, jump across the first of the covered trenches. Some of the others followed his lead but more were unprepared and Davos watched as forelegs snapped and tripped making horses scream and send riders into the grass to be trampled by their comrades. Then they met the second trench and the third and then the hundreds of smoke spewing pits.

Despite the traps the great wave of shining steel pressed on, now met by arrows and quarrels from archers and crossbowmen, causing yet more men and horses to scream their last breaths, but the charge continued. Still leading the horde was the knight is sapphire and silver, who Davos now recognized from the many many tourneys of King's Landing as Ser Loras himself. Loras passed by a banner stuck in the earth, Davos turned to his men. "First rank ready dragons!"

With practiced hands the soldiers lifted the hand-dragons to the arrow slits while bracing the long barrels in against their shoulders. Davos had used the weapon once and it had bruised his shoulder for nearly a week. It would be even worse for these men not only would they fire dozens of times in the battle but they had loaded three of the small lead balls instead of the usual one. Davos did not have to wait long for the long loud blast of a horn. "FIRE!"

Dragon and hand-dragon together belched death at the rebels the deafening thunder of _Balerion_ and her siblings roars drowned out the hand-dragons comparatively smaller cracks. For a few moments Davos stood stunned, though he was not alone in that reaction near every man in the host was still. _Tis one thing to hear a few dozen or even a hundred crack at once but for a dozen dragons and near half-a-thousand hand-dragons at once? What horrors has Stannis unleashed_?

Davos shook himself as the smoke began to drift away, blown farther inland by the morning breeze. "Come lads there is yet more work to be done. First rank back, second rank ready dragons." The first rank pulled back to reload, dutifully pulling out ball and wadding and powderhorn to begin the slow process. The second rank advanced in place of the first again waiting for the command. Davos could already hear other companies up and down the line beginning to let loose more death but Davos waited a moment. "Mother have mercy on you and may the Father judge you justly. Fire."

The second rank unleashed a volley and, at Davos' command retreated allowing the third rank to advance. The third rank unleashed a volley. Then the fourth. Then the first, having finished the painfully slow business of reloading, fired a second time. Davos wasn't sure if he could really hear the screams or if they were only his mind playing tricks, but he was certain that they were there nonetheless.

The dragons roared again sending great cones of scrap metal and nails through the rebels, that was the signal. "Stop! Stop shooting!" Davos yelled. "All ranks reload and return to formation."

With a sigh Davos faced the smoke smothered battlefield. As the ringing in his ears faded he began to hear the faint sound of footsteps. A shape appeared in the smoke, a shape that soon resolved itself into that of a man. The man, a wealthy one going by the rubies in his helm, staggered forward shaking all the while. He held out his empty hands. "Mercy," he cried. "Mercy."

"Aemon," Davos called to one of his sergeants. "Have two men take him to the rear."

"Yes Ser," intoned the massive silver haired dragonseed in his typical monotone.

As the smoke cleared, blown farther inland by the morning breeze, more and more of the carnage was revealed. _This was not a battle it was a massacre_.

In some places the rebels had nearly reached the palisades only to be ripped apart by the triple-shoted hand-dragons wielded by the men of Dragonstone. The numbers of the dead were staggering, hundreds at least perhaps over a thousand, lay broken and bleeding on the field. Some of them had fallen to wounds that were deceptively small others had lost heads, arms, and legs or else were missing whole chunks out of their torsos almost as if some massive shark had taken a great bite. _Or a dragon_.

"Aemon, take a dozen men and find any men who are still alive down there take them to the maester. Or if need be grant them a quick death."

"Yes Ser."

Aemon lumbered down the slope gripping his own hand-dragon, a different sort than what the common soldiery used, rather than a long thin tube to be loaded with a single ball Aemon used a shorter blunter weapon with a cone shaped tube that shot a dozen small balls with tremendous power. Davos had heard the men calling them thunder-dragons due to the loud boom they made instead of a sharp crack.

Another minute passed as the dragons were reloaded and fired sending another gout of smoke and death towards the enemy. On the very edge of hearing Davos could detect more screams rising from the foe. Only a few seconds had passed before Aemon ran out of the smoke his squad following him.

"The enemy have returned?" Davos asked.

The sergeant returned to Davos' side. "Yes Ser."

And then Davos began to feel an all too familiar tremble in the earth as another wave of horses and men and steel began to charge. This time Davos couldn't see the signal banner or the effect of the trenches or even where the enemy was.

"Not that it matters," he muttered. "So many of them you couldn't miss if you tried."

"Yes Ser."

Davos squinted into the smoke trying to judge if the time was right."Damn it all, first rank ready dragons."

As before a quarter of the company readied their weapons, and themselves, behind the palisade.

"Fire." As before smoke and fire and lead was released and a second later a screaming horse plunged out of the smoke sending a bleeding rider head first into the ground. He didn't move after that.

The second rank replaced the first and fired again into the smoke. Now there were clear shapes moving in the smoke, men, and even horses, so maddened by death and horror that fear had loosed its grip over them. A few managed to reach the palisade trying to cut or smash their way through or climb over it. They were shot down by either the myrish crossbowmen, Davos own dragonmen, or else cut to pieces by the household knights led by Ser Rolland Storm who were now moving to the front. Davos lent his poleaxe to the fray chopping and stabbing at any hand or arm or leg or head that reached past the wood.

What had once been ordered ranks firing became chaos as each dragonman loaded and shot as fast as he could, those who tried to move to far up the slope who brutally beaten back into line by screaming sergeants. Save for Aemon he had no need to scream only to scowl and point with his thunder-dragon.

Davos found himself fighting shoulder to shoulder with Justin Massey, the smiling knight had commanded a company of dragonmen down the line from Davos.

He grinned at Davos. "I thought I'd join you Ser Onion. I can't let you earn all the glory."

"What?"

"You didn't know? Here the fight is fiercest! Haha!" With that Massey stabbed his sword through the visor of a man whose surcoat bore a red hunstman, blood spurted covering the face of the laughing knight.

"Fiercest? Mother have mercy."

Almost as if the gods had decided to punish Davos for daring to bring their attention to this hell, a section of palisade gave way to a dying horse. The poor beasts rider, a knight in blue armor, leapt and landed with the skill only a lifetime of training could accomplish. A dragonman shot him in the head. Still his bravery let his brothers in arms carry through the breach hacking and cutting and smashing and stabbing with axe and sword and mace and lance. Some ahorse some afoot but it mattered not as the sheer weight of them pushed the defenders back. Davos found himself fighting for his life as a sword armed knight with a tree on his surcoat came for him screaming of a hate beyond words. Massey saved Davos' life a single elegant thrust under the mad knights arm piercing his heart.

And then he saw him, still astride his destrier, his emerald armour untouched by arrow or ball, his great cloak like a wave of gold, and his antlers shining in the morning light. Renly. he looked like the Warrior himself come to slay any who would challenge him. Davos could almost feel the host of Dragonstone flinch back against Renly's magnificence.

Renly raised his sword his stallion reared in triumph and then his breastplate disappeared in a shower of blood. Smoke and fire and thunder had killed the false king. For a moment there was silence as all men stood shocked, all men save for Aemon who calmly began to reload his dragon.

It was at that moment when silence filled the field that King Stannis revealed his final trap. Although Dragonstone was not so famed for its mines as Casterly Rock mines it had all the same, mines that brought iron and coal and brimstone and dragonglass from the sometimes still molten depths of the Dragonmount. Miners had come with the host at Stannis' command and at his command had dug tunnels and chambers, not under the walls of Storm's End like most sieges would have but instead under the fields around the great fortress instead. Under the fields which were now covered with Renly's host. The tunnels and chambers had not been left empty either they had been filled with barrels of black powder. And now they had been lit aflame.

The explosion was beyond words like all the dragons who had ever live or had ever been forged had all decided to roar at once. Earth and rocks and men were sent hundreds of feet in the air only to fall back upon the ground crushing men beneath. It was too much. Where there had once been a screaming horde of killers was now a mob of terrified men. Some fell to their knees, in prayer or surrender or mayhaps simply too shocked to stand, Davos couldn't tell. Some simply ran away. Some began to shout their loyalty to Stannis. Others decided actions were louder than words and began to cut down their former companions. In the end it didn't matter what they did for the battle was won. Stannis had won.


	2. Chapter 2 (Davos, Tyrion, Mathis, Catelyn)

Davos

Of the many blessings of the exploding pit Davos was most thankful not that it had ended the battle but rather that it provided a convenient mass grave for the slain. After only a day and a half the stench was beyond what he had ever smelled before. A foul odor that smothered the land for miles around. But even the pit could not hold all the dead so Stannis ordered that the dead be burned to stop their decay from spreading to the living. Those knights of noble status or lords who could still be recognized were granted the dignity of having their flesh stripped by the Maesters and Silent Sisters. Their bones were stored to be returned to their families once the war was done.

The rest of the thousands dead were stripped of their arms and armour, were burned in great bonfires, and had their remains dumped into the pit. It was the work of thousands of men to carry the bodies of horses and men into the fires and the pit. Crows and flies covered the dead like a great black blanket.

Even as thousands of men covered themselves in gore caring for the dead, their lords and knights swore themselves to King Stannis. Alester Florent was the first to swear fealty. The Lord of Brightwater Keep had, on the first day, come to kneel before the king and others had followed, Estermont, Errol, Varner, Farring, Meadows, Fossoway, and many more. Almost all the great lords of the Reach and Stormlands save for those the new Lord Dickon, son of the late Randyll Tarly, and Lord Merret Willum whose son Josua had died in the battle. All the others had bent the knee or else had fled to Bitterbridge with Lord Rowan. It took two days for all the oaths of fealty to be given all the while Davos and the other dragon captains stood at Stannis' side a constant reminder to the new lords of the power at King Stannis' command.

After the oaths of fealty came the rewards for service as many men had performed great acts in Renly's last charge and now they were justly honoured. The first to be rewarded was Aemon, Davos' sergeant, who was raised to knighthood for killing Renly, he was also granted command of his former hand-dragon company, the one Davos had commanded until now. Have I displeased the king somehow?

Ser Shadrich of the Shady Glen had fought and killed Ser Parmen Crane, one of Renly's Kingsguard, and was granted his choice of a White Cloak or a keep near Storm's End. He chose the keep.

Wensel Rogers, a five and ten years old squire, who served a sworn sword of House Bar Emmon, had saved his knight's life at the breach fighting four Tarly men to a standstill. Wensel was knighted for his troubles.

Ser Richard Horpe was granted a white cloak for leading a mounted charge that had captured Renly's camp and cut off most of Renly's host from fleeing with Mathis Rowan. Ser Richard smiled as the cloak was swept around Richard's shoulders, it one of the few time Davos could recall Horpe smiling.

Ser Rolland Storm also accepted a white cloak from King Stannis.

Ser Justin Massey was promised a strong keep once the war was done.

Ser Clayton Suggs was granted a small holdfast on Dragonstone.

Even those who had fought for Renly were not ignored. Ser Bonifer Hasty who had had five horses shot down under him and had been wounded in his right arm and both legs, but had fought on only to surrender with dignity at the end of the battle. Ser Bonifer was recognized as commander of the Holy Hundred and was granted a place in the vanguard in the coming battles in recognition of his valour.

When Davos' name was called his heart thundered in his chest as he knelt before the king in front of all his court.

"Ser Davos Seaworth," Stannis declared. "For your valour in battle and your long history of loyalty these past years I Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm do name you Lord of Rainwood Keep, and Lord Commander of Dragons."

A smattering of applause broke out from the assembled lords and knights as Davos rose a lord. Devan was beaming from his place beside the king and Davos shot him a wink.

Davos returned to his companies as Stannis moved from his granting honours to issuing commands.

Ser Erren Florent, King Stannis' goodbrother, was granted near two-thousand men and a company of dragonmen under Ser Justin Massey to take command of the foot Renly had left at Bitterbridge.

Ser Imry Florent was awarded command of the fleet as Lord High Captain, while his uncle Ser Axell was made Castellan of Dragonstone, and Lord Alester himself was named Hand of the King the first to be named to King Stannis' Small Council aside from Ser Richard Horpe as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

Positions were granted in advance in the van, left, center, and rear. Duties were assigned for scouting, foraging, and other such ignoble but necessary tasks. After near an hour King Stannis at last commanded that Ser Guyard Morrigen be sent, under a banner of truce, to negotiate with Ser Cortnay Penrose who yet held Storm's End itself in the name of dead Renly.

The king, Davos, Sers Richard and Rolland, Lord Alester, and a guard of knights and dragonmen accompanied Ser Guyard. The party rode half-way up the slope to Storm's End before stopping and allowing Ser Guyard to continue with a pair of sworn swords riding towards the gate.

Not ten minutes had passed before Ser Guyard returned bearing his message from the besieged. "Your Grace, Ser Cortnay refuses to negotiate until he may see Lord Renly's body. Until then he holds hope that his liege lord yet lives."

King Stannis ground his teeth. "Send for my brother's body," he commanded.

It was Dragonstone men led by Ser Clayton who fetched the corpse. Even in death Renly looked handsome, every inch the image of the fallen, noble warrior. He was loaded into a cart and led back to Storm's End. Ser Guyard rode ahead of the small procession still in his brilliant green armour and the multi coloured cloak he had been granted as one of Renly's kingsguard, or rainbow guard as the younger Baratheon had called them.

Near half and hour passed before Ser Guyard returned sans a cart but with the bald and red-bearded Ser Cortnay with him.

Stannis addressed the Castellan of Storm's End. "Ser Cortnay."

Ser Cortnay was silent for some time before he offered a slight nod to Stannis. "My lord."

"It is customary to address a king as Your Grace," sneered Lord Alester.

"I see no king only a kinslayer."

Stannis ground his teeth. "My brother did not fall by my hand."

"But he did fall at your command," shot back Ser Cortnay.

Stannis ground his teeth harder yet. "Renly is dead. You have seen that yourself. I would have your surrender Ser."

"And the terms?"

"A full pardon for you and the garrison. Your place as castellan of Storm's End will continue. And lastly my brother's bastard Edric Storm must be given into my care."

It was at the last part that Ser Cortnay stiffened. "No. By the Seven no I will not give you Edric."

"See now Ser," spoke Lord Alester. "I beg that you see reason now, the boy is of a blood with the king and myself. What would he have to fear from our care? His Grace is a man of honour, as am-"

Ser Cortnay glared at the Lord of Brightwater Keep as he interrupted the Reachlords platitudes with a shout. "You are a man of ambition! And any man who consorts with sorcery." Ser Cortnay shook his hand at the dragonmen. "Is no man of honour. I will not surrender the boy to you my lord."

With that Ser Cortnay turned and rode to Storm's End.

Stannis sat his horse in silence grinding his teeth. Finally he said. "Lord Seaworth, bring up the dragons, Storm's End will fall."

Davos did as he was bid, his new subordinates laboriously pulled the great steel tubes up the hill, bringing the iron balls and barrels of black powder with them. They set up far outside of arrow range the twelve great dragons crouched low on the slope as they were slowly and steadily loaded and readied.

The great host gathered behind them, afoot and ahorse ready the charge with hastily made ladders.

Stannis let his horse be led away and stood near Davos, with Ser Guyard Morrigen nearby.

"Shoot the gates first," commanded the king.

"Yes Your Grace."

Davos relayed the commands to his captains, though to be true he felt somewhat purposeless, the dragonmen knew their business better than Davos did.

Finally all of the dragons were ready and their captains waited on Davos' command. He took a breath and turned to the captains of Balerion and Meraxes. "Fire."

The great roars of the two largest dragons filled his ears, while fire filled his vision, and then smoke smothered him.

When the smoke cleared it revealed that the gates of Storm's End no longer existed.

King Stannis turned to a visibly shaken Ser Guyard. "Ask Ser Cortnay if he would like to surrender. Offer him the same terms as before."

Near an hour passed before Ser Guyard returned, he rode to Stannis and happily announced. "The castle is yours Your Grace."

Davos discovered later that Ser Cortnay had desired to fight on, but the garrison, terrified of the dragons, mutinied and imprisoned Ser Cortnay and his few loyalists. They were delivered in chains before King Stannis.

Stannis now ensconced within the great hall of Storm's End addressed them. "Twice today I offered you a chance to surrender, and twice did you refuse me. Now I offer you a third chance to swear your fealty to me."

One by one all of them men save for Ser Cortnay himself knelt before the king.

"You would still refuse me Ser?"

"My loyalty cannot be shaken by threats."

"Then it is the sword for you. Take him."

As men took Ser Cortnay by the arms he spoke. "I would have one thing from you my lord."

"You have that right."

"Just as you took your Onion Knight's fingers yourself, I would have you take my head yourself."

Stannis was silent for several long moments. He turned to Devan. "Bring my sword."

Ser Cortnay was led out of the hall and made to kneel in the yard. To his credit Ser Cortnay went to his death in honourable silence as he bowed his head over the block.

Without a word Stannis raised his sword and brought it down.

Tyrion

Tyrion woke with a start as someone knocked on his door. The knocking wasn't very loud almost like the knocker wasn't sure how loud was too loud. That could only mean. "Pod," he called. "If this is not of the utmost importance then I'll have Bronn take you on a one way fishing trip in Blackwater Bay."

The door opened. "Ser. My lord. My hand. May I enter. I mean I already have entered, but may I enter more? Unless Ser. My lord doesn't wi-"

"You may enter," Tyrion interrupted his squire as he sat up in the bed. He turned towards the tonguetied youth. "Now what is this about?"

"Ser Meryn is here."

Tyrion waited for Pod to continue and when it became clear he would not. "Here about what?"

"The queen sent him."

"And what does my sweet sister want?"

"I. Umm. That is."

"You don't know do you?"

"No ser. My lord."

Tyrion sighed. "I suppose I needs must speak with Ser Meryn then. Help me dress."

Despite his slow tongue Pod was sure handed and dressed Tyrion with almost remarkable speed in a neat crimson doublet. Dressed and mostly awake Tyrion waddled out to meet his unwelcome visitor. Ser Meryn was armored in his brilliant white scales sword sheathed at his side. "So what is it that sweet Cersei has sent you for. I hardly thinkit is to ensure that my mattress is properly stuffed or that my sheets have been sufficiently laundered."

The taller man frowned and tightened his grip on his sword. Tsk tsk no sense of humor.

"The Queen has demanded your presence in the Small Council chamber."

"What for?"

"For a meeting of the Small Council of course!"

"At this hour. Have I forgotten something?" Tyrion paused. "It's not her nameday is it?"

Ser Meryn looked like he was about to erupt but Tyrion cut him off once again. "Pod fetch the Dornish red from the kitchens. I fear I may have need of it before the morn is done. Bring it to the small council." Tyrion returned his attention to Ser Meryn. "Well Ser, lead on."

Trant growled as he turned on his heel heading down the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion turned to a drowsy Shagga. "I don't think he likes me very much." The mountain clansman shrugged and stood to follow Tyrion out of the chamber towards the small council chamber.

Sers Arys Oakheart and Boros Blount were on guard, Ser Meryn must have already entered. "Good morning," Tyrion directed to Ser Arys, while he ignored Blount. The council chamber was empty save for Sers Meryn and Mandon standing guard, a sitting Varys, and a pacing Cersei.

His voice dripping with sarcasm Tyrion addressed the tired and frazzled looking Cersei. "Why my dear sister you look positively radiant this morning." Cersei stopped in midstep and turned to glare daggers at Tyrion.

She snarled. "You won't be grinning for long imp!"

As Tyrion sat she turned her attention elsewhere. "Where are they?" She asked of Ser Mandon.

Before the fish-eyed vale knight could respond Littlefinger sauntered into the room coming to a near stop when he caught eye of Tyrion. He smiled slightly and sat opposite to Varys. He knows what this is about and if Littlefinger is smiling than it can only be trouble.

Cersei returned to her pacing

Pycelle doddered in next.

With everyone arrived Tyrion turned to Cersei. "So my dear sister why has the Small Council been summoned on such an early hour."

It was Varys who answered. "Renly Baratheon is dead."

Tyrion raised a eyebrow. "How?"

Varys sighed. "In battle Lord Renly's host of twenty thousand knights was broken by Lord Stannis outside Storm's End those who survived the battle have, led by Alester Florent by and large pledged themselves to Stannis growing his host near four times over. Some are already calling it the Second Field of Fire."

While Tyrion had listened to the Spider he had heard nothing that seemed to much of a reason for all this alarm. While an upset the result was hardly astonishing, Stannis was afterall a respected commander and Renly… Renly was not. But that last part that made everyone present, even Littlefinger, sit up in shock.

It was Littlefinger who broke the silence. "Stannis has dragons?"

Varys shook his head. "Not that I am aware of. However my little birds have sung such sweet songs of fire and blood. They sing of flames rising hundreds of feet in the air. They sing of men and horses fleeing in utmost terror. They sing of smoke and the stench of burned flesh filling the air for miles." Here the Spider stopped and giggled. "Now my lords, my Queen, what do we know of that can do all these things?"

Tyrion was stunned near to silence but after a few moments he managed to say. "Aside from dragons, only wildfire."

"That is. That is preposterous." Stuttered Pycelle. "How could Lord Stannis have wildfire? Only the Alchemists can make wildfire. This. This is nonsense. Your Grace."

Cersei snapped at Pycelle. "Shut up you beardless fool. Stannis has wildfire that much is undeniable. It doesn't matter how what matters is what we do."

For once Tyrion agreed with his sister. A shame she can't be this reasonable all the time. "What other songs do your little birds sing?"

Varys shrugged. "Josua Willum, Brienne of Tarth, Parmen Crane, Randyll Tarly, and Loras Tyrell are all confirmed to be slain. Lord Willum and the now Lord Dickon Tarly have refused to bend the knee and instead have been taken prisoner."

Tyrion thought for a moment. "Did any of Renly's host escape the battle?"

"The songs vary, but at most one and five hundreds fled under the command of Mathis Rowan. By this time they are likely to be nearing Bitterbridge where Renly's foot is encamped. Further it is clear that the garrison of Storm's End surrendered not long after that battle."

"Leaving Stannis free to march on King's Landing, and with construction of the chain better than a month from completion. He can sail up the Blackwater without anything to stop him."

Cersei snarled. "The wildfire can still turn his precious fleet into so much firewood."

"The wildfire was always a risk," Tyrion sighed. "But now it is a liability."

Cersei gave Tyrion that particular glare he imagined that she had perfected in her childhood. It meant I know you're trying to say something clever but I'm don't know what and I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of asking.

Too bad. "With only our forces armed with wildfire we were already at risk of blowing ourselves up. Now Stannis will be flinging wildfire back at us it is almost a certainty that someone will fuck up his day and ours by dropping a pot and taking half our walls with it."

Pycelle shook his head. "My lord Tyrion surely you overestimate the impact Lord Stannis' wildfire would have on the battle. Moreover does he not run the same risks as we would."

Tyrion made sure to make his tone as exceedingly patronizing as possible. "Grand Maester perhaps you have forgotten but Stannis has the liberty to spread out his forces and unlike us he is not trapped in a city filled to the brim wildfire. The inconvenient truth is that we have spent thousands of dragons on something that is now more likely to send us all to the Seven Hells than the enemy. King's Landing is indefensible."

This got Cersei's attention. She threw her full goblet at the wall spraying her wine across Ser Mandon's white cloak. "You want to abandon the capital! Abandon the Iron Throne! What kind of fool are you? If we flee people will think us cowards. Without the capital people will think Joffrey to be a false king."

Which to be fair he is.

"Not flee. Retreat. One is cowardice the other is prudence, do try and keep up. Besides if we don't retreat then we will be either dead or prisoners and once that happens there's not much we can do to stop Stannis from crushing us. On the other hand we can always fight another day and recapture the city. Besides would you rather see your childrens heads on spikes?"

Littlefinger and Varys were silent though Pycelle had foroughed his brow in thought. "Your grace perhaps Lord Tyrion has a point. There is historical precedent during the Dance of the Dragons King Aegon did lose the city for a time and it did not lose him the war. Surely we... er... King Joffrey can do the same."

There was a moment of silence as the other members of the small council stared at Pycelle. Cersei in particular seemed speechless.

The old goat knows that if Stannis takes the city that he'll lose his head along with the rest of us.

Cersei glared at Pycelle. "I am a woman and I have more balls than you craven. You would have us abandon the city and let Stannis take Joffrey's throne without even challenging him?"

Before Pycelle could speak Tyrion made his move. "No one said anything about letting Stannis walk in unopposed."

Littlefinger chose this moment to interject. "Then what do you propose."

"Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella, must leave the city before Stannis lays siege. After that we resist with everything we have. If we're lucky we can damage Stannis' host enough to make defeating him later considerably easier."

Cersei sneered. "If Joffrey leaves then the gold cloaks will collapse in minutes."

Tyrion nodded his agreement. "Yes of course, you're right, which is why Lancel will be wearing Joffrey's armour and a crowned helm. From a distance he looks enough like Joffrey to pass and in armour and a crowned helm hardly anyone would be able to see the difference."

Cersei seemed a tad calmer. "And where would you suggest Joffrey go? Casterly Rock? Harrenhal?"

"Goldengrove."

Cersei stiffened. "You want to send my son across half the Seven Kingdoms to the castle of our enemy!" She nearly screeched the last word.

"Our former enemy and he'd only be travelling across half of one kingdom. With Renly dead his war dies with him those who would go over to Stannis have already done so. And need I remind you Stannis killed Loras. Lord Mace will be itching to win his vengeance against the killer of his favourite son."

"Then why not go yourself? Why send Joffrey when there is fighting between here and Goldengrove!"

"Joffrey will of course have the Hound and a guard of three hundred gold cloaks, half our red cloaks and half my clansmen. As for why Joffrey must go Renly did not just leave an army without a leader, he left a bride without a husband."

Varys chuckled. "You mean to wed Joffrey to Margaery?"

"Indeed I do. Joffrey can ride to Goldengrove and from there gather the Tyrell swords and a Tyrell bride. He can then be sent to the safety of Casterly Rock."

Cersei objected. "Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark."

Littlefinger cut in. "One could mention that the Tyrells are so very much wealthier than the Starks. And mayhaps the beauty of the Lady Margaery herself could be mentioned."

Tyrion grinned. "Betrothals can be broken. With her brother in open rebellion wedding and bedding Sansa Stark gives us nothing that holding her prisoner does not already. But Margaery Tyrell, wedding her would give us all the strength of Highgarden."

Cersei shook her head. "Joffrey will never accept Renly's leavings, he is too proud. He would never consent to wed the Tyrell girl."

"In three years Joffrey could refuse to consent but he is only three and ten, and you are his regent while I am his Hand. The king will do as he is bid."

With all her objections dismissed Cersei closed her eyes and nodded. "Very well, but the kingsguard will go with him, and you will send all your sellswords and double the gold cloaks to act as Joffrey's guard."

"It would be very strange if our pretend king had no whitecloaks around him, and Myrcella and Tommen will need guardians as well. Myrcella is fond of Ser Arys so he can go with her to Dorne. Ser Boros often guards Prince Tommen so there is no need to change that. Ser Preston and Ser Meryn can watch Lancel. That leaves the Hound and Ser Mandon to guard the king."

Varys chose that moment to add. "If I'm not mistaken those are the two best swords among the Kingsguard. Excluding poor Ser Jaime of course."

Cersei still seemed unhappy so Tyrion continued. "And of course every sellsword we can hire will go with him. We can't trust them to fight for a doomed city anyway. And the Small Council must go to advise our king."

At last Cersei relented she sat and held her head in her hands. "If any harm comes to Joffrey then you had best pray the gods keep you safe."

Tyrion was solemn. "You have my word no harm will come to Joffrey. Now I believe we have travel preparations to begin"

Cersei arched and eyebrow. "We?"

"I said the Small Council must accompany Joffrey and I am a member of the Small Council am I not?"

"You are the king's hand," Cersei purred. "And the hand must always be at the kings side, which is why you must stay here. Or else people will question why our king commands the walls without his noble uncle bravely at his side."

Shit. She has me.

Littlefinger spoke before Tyrion could defend himself, smiling more like a cat than a mockingbird. "Her Grace has the right of it, especially since His Grace has not yet reached his majority, there must be a man of your experience to command the defence."

Pycelle nodded in agreement and Varys looked on passively. Shit. shit, and shit.

"If the council wills it then I will of course stay to command the city," Tyrion admitted grudgingly.

"Excellent," Cersei looked happier than she had in months.

Likely not since I first came to King's Landing.

With their business done the Small Council dispersed. Littlefinger, Varys and Cersei left to begin making their preparations to leave, though it would be several weeks at least before they left the city. Tyrion waddled out of the chamber to be met by the yawning trio of Pod, Shagga, and Bronn.

"What news?" Asked the sellsword.

Tyrion took a moment to sigh. "We're fucked."

Mathis

With a vicious twist Mathis Rowan freed his sword from the flesh of a dying man. He turned to his left, bringing his shield up as he did, to block the axe stroke of another Florent man-at-arms. The impact sent a shock up his arm causing him to gasp in pain and inhale gout of smoke. Mathis, coughing and lightheaded, tried to raise his sword but before he could launch a thrust in return the fox's helm was split in two by a pole-ax wielded by an Osgrey knight. One of the burning pavilions collapsed sending a spray of sparks and burning cloth into the enemy. The enemy knights flinched back. Now free, for the moment at least, of any pressing concerns trying to kill him Mathis pulled back trusting his knights to hold long enough for him to get his bearing and a plan to get them the hell out of here.

It had seemed so easy on the ride from Storm's End, get to Bitterbridge first and rally the foot, and then bring the immense host over to the Lannisters. Who being led by the shrewd and pragmatic Lord Tywin would then without doubt look to reward this stalwart act of loyalty. A seat on the Small Council, a keep for his youngest son, holdfasts for his numerous cousins, and perhaps a Lannister marriage between his slut of a daughter and whichever nephew Tywin could spare. Lancel mayhaps?

Alas if one wants to make the gods laugh you must only tell them their plans. Despite his haste Mathis, and the thousand survivors he had brought from Storm's End, had arrived only minutes before near two thousand men, bearing the banners of Florent and Massey and Baratheon, came with dozens of representatives from near half the houses of the Reach, all of them preaching the glories of Lord Stannis. The fighting had broken out almost immediately, with Mathis' loyalists taking the worst of the fight as whenever Mathis organized his forces enough to create a strongpoint it was near immediately wiped away by the accursed new weapons some of Stannis' men wielded.

Having seen them close now, in the confines of the camp, he saw now that they were weapons, not sorcery. He knew not how they worked only that they killed with fire and smoke and let loose sharp cracks or load roars when they did. After the battle at Storm's End Mathis had idley wondered if, like Aegon before him, Stannis commanded dragons and know Mathis knew he had been right. For what else could one call these weapons? They may be lacking him wings but fire they had aplenty.

Mathis pushed his way through the mass of grunting and shoving men to where his fellow loyal lords had gathered chief among them Ser Leo Blackbar and Lord Arthur Ambrose, the other great lords and knights of the Reach being either dead, fled, or else had turned their cloaks. Even Lorent Caswell, the lord of Bitterbridge, was doing nothing about the fighting. Instead the craven preferred to hide in his keep. He could distantly hear a series of dragon roars.

"My lords."

"Lord Mathis," the two lords answered.

Ser Leo seemed worried, his broad chest heaving with exhaustion. "I fear we are losing the battle."

A glance confirmed that Lord Arthur seemed to share Leo's opinion. Mathis considered lying but decided that the truth would suit him better at the moment. "Yes, we are losing. What we can best do now is retreat in good order with as many men as we can."

The young Ser Leo seemed more than a tad concerned. "How are we to do this? Half the host is fighting the other half. Rivalries buried for decades have come to the fore." He shook his head. "it's chaos. We couldn't lead a pig out of this mess let alone and army."

Mathis shook his head. "We don't need to lead we just need not flee. Florent and Massey are in near as big a mess as we are. No one knows who's really on which side. By presenting an organized force in a sea of chaos men will rally to us. Seven Hells man men are rallying to us! All we must do is march towards the edge of the camp as more men rally on us we can mount our retreat in good order taking thousands. No. Tens of thousands of soldiers with us."

Lord Arthur was nodding now though Ser Leo still seemed uncertain.

Another burst of roars echoed in the burning camp, Mathis looked at Leo and shrugged. "With or without you we are leaving Ser."

Leo closed his eyes as sparks washed over him. "Alright let us be done with this place,"

"Very good. We will go south and follow the Mander, if we are separated we will meet at Longtable. Are we agreed?"

Arthur smiled. "Aye."

Blackbar sighed. "Aye."

"But if we are to retreat first we must win some breathing room. Lord Arthur, Ser Leo hold the line while I break these bastards." Without giving them a chance to argue Mathis once again drew his sword, but rather than dive back into the pushing and shoving mass of men, he instead gathered a hundred or so stragglers from the rear. Moving in a broad arc through a quiet and all but deserted area of the camp. Here and there were bands of armed men gathered around choice tents ripe for looting. Repressing his own greed for the moment Mathis pressed these looters into his service and just as he had foretold the more men he gathered the more came to his banner.

As his band gathered itself amongst what had once been a makeshift tourney field Mathis leapt atop an abandoned wagon to address them. "Men. Warriors of the Reach! Of the Stormlands! In five minutes we are going to be on the enemy we are going to hit them from the rear and fuck them bloody!"

Mathis smiled as the makeshift host of highborn knights and smallfolk levies cheered.

He raised his hands for silence. "And as I'm sure you all know the best way to fuck someone good and proper is to slip in without even being felt. But once you're there you don't stop until the wench is screaming your name and all the gods! Only difference now is that we won't stop!"

Another cheer.

"Now don't just stand their lads! Get to the fucking!"

A roar rose from a thousand throats as the host charged past Mathis and through the mass of tents that separated them from the enemy rear. Mathis hopped down from the wagon and joined them in their headlong charge.

The tents parted and gave way to a crowd of men killing each other with a howl Mathis leapt forward into the mass of the enemy, trusting in his plate to keep him unharmed, he rammed his shield against a Fossoway man. His bull-like rush sent the man sprawling into two others of the foe sprawling and broke a small hole in their line, a gap that was quickly exploited by his knights. Surprised, exhausted and taken from the rear it did not take long for a rout to begin.

As the enemy fled Mathis stood amongst the crowd of cheering soldiers Lord Arthur and Ser Leo approached him. Ser Leo sighed. "We would not have held out much longer my lord. As it is we're lucky that none of Stannis' dragons arrived."

"The gods have smiled on us then. Now we must get this lot out of here, get me a horse." It took only a few moments for a suitable steed, a rowan courser, to be found. Now mounted Mathis looked down on Ser Leo. "Have your men bring up the rear and collect any stragglers." To Lord Arthur he said. "Mind the flanks my lord. I'll take the front" Then he raised his sword and his voice as one. "Now lads follow me!"

Mathis spurred the courser south holding his blade aloft, and leading thousands of men in his wake. We must be fast elsewise we'll get this lot caught in a meatgrinder and pinned down until Stannis' dragons can rip us apart.

True to his thoughts Mathis led the host on a quick march through the camp, per his commands to Lord Arthur and Ser Leo more and more stragglers, men from a dozen houses, were gathered and folded into the barely organized column. Every so often Mathis would give another cheer and charge a few dozen paces forward, just to keep his men running. The pace couldn't be maintained for long but all they needed was to get free of the camp.

Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. A armoured man in Florent colours and behind him a few hundred more armed men. Many of them with dragons. Shit.

Mathis didn't have a choice if he let the men wait a moment they'd start thinking about the dragons and if there was one thing Mathis knew it was that a thinking soldier was a soldier who was about to run away. The only thing for it was to charge right into them before they enemy could ready themselves and more importantly before his men could think.

He spurred his horse. "CHARGE!"

Mathis wasn't sure who was more scared the Florent man-at-arms, who was now staring down a mounted man swinging a sword at his head, or Mathis himself who was looking down at a hundred dragonmen. Flame and smoke and death billowed from the weapons and passed Mathis by. Mathis cut the Florent down and smashed his horse into the line of swordsmen and dragonmen. He swung his blade wildly as the enemy crowded around him. A man grabbed his leg to try and drag him off the horse. Mathis smashed the offending limb with his pommel.

Then a tide of screaming men swept the enemy away. Laughing Mathis gave chase to the enemy cutting them down as they fled the camp. As the enemy fled Mathis rather than continue to follow them led his men south.

Hours later Mathis let himself sit down he and the host was exhausted by over an hour of battle and then hours more of marching. He let himself rest not bothering to issue commands about fires or piss pits or anything else. His throat was still sore from shouting commands and breathing smoke. He grimaced as wine seared his throat. He pulled his gauntlet off and took a good look at the bruises that covered his shield arm. A few squeezes later and he was assured that there were no broken bones just bruises. He felt a pain in his leg his calf and ankle were covered in dried blood. He started to struggle with his armour. Gods know where my squire is, dead in a ditch most likely. Mathis paused a moment to whisper a prayer for the poor lad had been the son of a distant cousin. Not a close relation but family nonetheless. Getting his armour off was a struggle but with some difficulty he found a long shallow cut on the side of his leg. It matched well with the jagged hole in his armour.

A flicker in the corner of his eye alerted him that someone was walking towards him. No, two someones Ser Leo, and a smoke blackened and bleeding peasant levy in Mullendore colours. Mathis rose to meet them but his greeting died in his throat when he saw what the peasant had in his arms. It was blackened and battered by sword and axe. It was a dragon.

Catelyn

A week's worth of riding passed in a blur as Catelyn drifted in and out of a fever sleep. She slept most hours of the day and struggled to eat anything. It seemed whatever she ate was simply vomited out only minutes later. In her few moments of clarity she realized that she had lost control of her bowls and that she was covered in her own filth. Though to be true she found herself struggling to care as she could not feel the filth flowing out and covering her.

Hallis had tied her like a sack of barley to a horse, while he and Lucas Blackwood stayed by her side, lest she fall.

A few times they stopped to wash Catelyn in a stream or river. Each time she was stripped and carried at arms length by two of her guards. She was then slowly dipped into the waters as one would hold her and the other used a cloth on her to rid her of the built up shit and piss. As they did this others would try and was her clothes to rid them of the bulk of the filth. She watched them ball up her stained and tattered dress. I will have that burned when we reach Riverrun.

She had lost track of how long she had been rising when, during one of her washings, Ser Wendel cursed and suddenly she was beneath the water. Catelyn panicked she pulled and pushed to free herself but the fever and lack of food had left her weak. The current was pulling her downstream. As a child she had learned to swim in the Red Fork and the Tumblestone but now her legs were like a great weight that pulled her down far from the light and the air. Hands grabbed at her and in her panic she began to pull on them intent on using whoever this was to climb out of the water. Alas she was too weak to do so and that very well might have saved her as Perwyn Frey pulled her from the water and dragged her to shore.

It was only after, that Catelyn realized that at now point was the water more than an arms length deep. As the party rode onwards she cried herself to sleep.

The next day they stopped at a small village in the Kingswood. There Ser Perwyn brought her to an old woodswitch to have her wounds tended. The old woman had leaves and feathers woven into her hair. She had Catelyn lie down on a straw pallet while she examined the wound with her poking and prodding fingers. "Does this hurt?"

"No."

"Hmmm. It is tainted to be sure. The dark humours have entered the wound and must be cleansed." The woodswitch stood and examined and array of clay pots marked with runes. She opened one and placed it on a table. After emptying the contents into a bowl she crushed it into a fine powder and mixed it with water and herbs from her hair.

"This poultice will repel the humours but first I must clean the wound." The old woman filled a kettle with wine and set it to boiling. Once done she waited a few minutes for it to cool and then soaked a rag in the hot wine. The woman used the rag to wash the wound and the surrounding flesh pushing it into the injury and up against Catelyn's bones. Once the woman was satisfied she poured some of the wine directly onto the wound. Catelyn hissed as hot wine flowed up her back to where she could still feel.

The woman applied her poultice to the wound then wrapped it in bandages made from wool. "I have prepared enough to make five poultices. It must be changed every three days and the bandages must be washed daily."

Catelyn nodded her understanding.

The woodswitch gave her a pat on the head and finished wrapping her waist in bandages. She left and in a few minutes Hallis and Ser Perwyn carried her out and tied her to the horse.

Whatever the woodswitch had put in the poultice it did it's work quickly. Within days the swelling and redness that had gripped Catelyn's lower back was gone and the fever had abated leaving her mind clear once again. Though still not in control of her bowels she was now able to at least abate the worst of it by stuffing her small clothes with cloth and moss to soak up the filth.

They left the Kingswood a week later travelling at speed through the heart of the war. The Riverlands, which had once been green and rich and peaceful, were now a blackened desert burnt by Lannister raiders. As they rode deeper into the Riverlands they found more and more broken and abandoned villages. The smallfolk having fled to the forests or to their lords castles or else now lying dead in their fields.

A week after entering the Riverlands they ran out of poultice. It was not long before her wound began to grow red and swollen. Lucas Blackwood claimed that by using a heated dagger he could drain the wound of the illness. All it did was make her injury larger. As days were spent riding Catelyn could feel her fever begin to return it wouldn't be long before she was again gripped by delirium.

By the grace of the Seven it did not come to that. Catelyn had lost track of how long they had been riding but as they crested a hill she saw a most welcome sight. Thank the gods. Below the hill lying astride the Red Fork of the Trident was Pinkmaiden castle and from its wall flew the dancing maiden of House Piper.

The party quickly rode towards the gates.

"Who goes there?"

Lucas Blackwood answered. "Ser Wendel Manderly, Ser Perwyn Frey, Hallis Mollen, I am Lucas Blackwood, and Catelyn Stark the Queen Mother. Now open this gate unless you want her grace to die of her injuries!"

It did not take long for the gates to open and for Lady Piper to send for her maester. Within minutes Catelyn was lying abed with servants fluttering around her asking over and over again if she had need of anything.

My husband. She thought. My children. My legs.

She did not know Lady Piper, she was a decade younger than Catelyn from a minor house near the Stoney Sept, she was big-breasted and large with child and seemed to be not very bright. Idly Catelyn recalled that Lord Clement had remarried after his first wife had died in childbirth. Uninterested in conversing with this stranger Catelyn closed her eyes on the nattering woman and let her fever send her into a twisting and dream filled sleep.

When she awoke the maester of Pinkmaiden was tending her wounds, though she could not feel it. He hemmed and hawed as she was poked and prodded by the maester's thin fingers.

"What did this your grace? It looks like no wound I've ever seen."

Catelyn was silent for several long moments before she answered. "A dragon."

At that the maester paused. "Are you having a play with me your grace?"

Catelyn repressed a shudder at the memories of flame and smoke and screaming death and too much blood. "I wish I was."

After that the maester was silent as he treated her wound.

At the insistence of Maester Walder and Lady Piper Catelyn and her guard agreed to stay a few days to ensure that her wound was healing well and so Lady Piper could host them properly with a small feast.

To be truly fair it was as good a feast as could be expected given burned fields on both sides of the Red Fork. Roasted venison and pork covered in honey glazes, platters of sliced vegetables, and rolls of cheese with nuts and freshly baked bread, with wine and ale in abundance. Everyone else seemed to enjoy themselves Ser Wendel in particular gorged himself on a small mountain of food. Singers sang songs of glorious victory, one in particular sang a version of The Rains of Castamere entitled The Snows of Casterly. Better it be called the Burning of Winterfell if Robb should try to make war on Stannis. After that Catelyn's mood soured and she soon asked to be taken to bed. Excusing her absence due to her wound. Even then she had to wait through a dozen boasts and oaths as every knight in the hall swore to personally take Stannis' head in vengeance.

What good is a rotting head to me when I cannot even relieve myself.

As if on cue she, and most others, smelt a particular odor rising from Catelyn. Stinking and humiliated Catelyn was carried out of the hall.

The next two days passed without incident and Catelyn was allowed to leave without much fanfare. She pushed herself and her guards to ride quickly north along the Red Fork, towards Riverrun. They were not alone for very long, up and down the length of the Red Fork were soldiers in Tully, Bracken, Piper, and Blackwood livry. The fighting men were cutting logs and digging pits at every ford between Riverrun and Pinkmaiden.

A day's ride south of Riverrun their path crossed with a large party of mounted knights and at their head, armed and armoured, was Edmure.

He grinned at the sight of her and laughing rode up to her. "Cat it has been to long! How are you?"

Edmure grew still and silent as he saw the ropes and straps which secured Catelyn to the saddle. "What is this? Why?"

Tears began to overflow Catelyn's eyes and spill down her cheeks.

His face still grave her brother urged his stallion next to her and leaned down to embrace her in a tight hug. Catelyn pushed her face into Edmure's shoulder.

"I will kill whoever did this to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Good news and band news. The good news is I've been posting this on another site until now so I've got a backlog that'll be posted rapidly. Bad news is after that you guys will need to wait like everyone else. I usually take about two weeks to write an update.


	3. Chapter 3 (Tyrion, Mathis, Davos)

Mathis

 

At a day's march from Bitterbridge Mathis had commanded near seven thousand men. Now, over two weeks later, at Longtable the host had swelled to over twenty thousand. Grown by other bands like his own led by Crane, Tarly, and Willum men any of those who had lost lords and kin at the Field of Fire. Further thousands of cravens who had fled the battle and their lords had been returned to their rightful place in the ranks thanks to the efforts of Ser Leo Blackbar.

 

At this very moment Ser Leo and his outriders were ranging to the north between Longtable and Bitterbridge and east all the way to Grassy Vale, hunting for more deserters to bring back to the host. Every day brought another few hundred men to the army.

 

Mathis looked at Lord Orton Merryweather from the corner of his eye. The Lord of Longtable was proving to be an exceptional host. As was the horn of plenty emblazoned on his banners indicated there was an abundance of food to be given to Mathis’ army.

 

 _To be fair the presence of twenty thousand armed men likely did much to improve his hospitality_. Mathis allowed a chuckle to escape him as he dug into the roasted capon served on a platter of spiced bread and roasted vegetables.

 

He put down the half-eaten capon leg and picked up a flagon of Arbor gold for a long draught. Lord Orton caught his eye as he drank deep from the expensive wine.

 

Lord Orton opened his mouth to speak but was quickly interrupted by Mathis loudly smacking his lips and taking another bite of capon.

 

Mathis covered his grin with a cloth as he wiped grease from his face. _I suppose tis time to take pity on the poor man_. Mathis idly flung the cloth to the table and waited for Orton to speak.

 

Lord Merryweather took a moment to scratch his bulbous nose. “My lord. How long did you wish to stay at Longtable? Not that you are unwelcome at my home, but Longtable’s stores are not inexhaustible. Especially after so much of our lands were stripped from us by the Mad King and King Robert.”

 

Mathis remained silent as Orton continued to speak at length on the various troubles of his house and the difficulties of supplying so many men.

 

“In short I fear that there will only be enough to supply the host for another few weeks my lord, if I am to have enough to keep my people through the winter.”

 

Mathis nodded his head slowly. “I imagine My lord that the continued fighting between here and Bitterbridge is an ongoing concern. What with bandits and deserters and traitors burning every field between the Mander and the Blueburn.” Mathis carefully left out that his own men were doing the same thing.

 

Lord Orton was quick to nod his head in agreement. “Yes my lord some nights my wife and I can smell smoke in the air.”

 

_He says that as if it is a miraculous revelation._

 

Mathis sighed. “I suppose it is time to move on, the soldiers do grow roudy when they’re left in one place for too long. I’ll make preparations to depart,” Mathis stood up with a stretch and a groan. “Though I’ll be leaving Ser Marton Broadtree, one of my vassals, with some men to continue gathering those cravens who fled the field.”

 

Lord Orton looked even more excited at the prospect of Mathis leaving than Mathis had thought possible. Or perhaps he was simply relieved that the drain on his coffers and granaries would soon be gone.

 

“It shouldn’t take more than a few days to arrange the departure. I trust that you will provide the necessary supplies for the host?”

 

“Yes… my lord.”

 

“Excellent. Now has your maester seen to that business I needed?”

 

“Maester Martyn has my lord. Might I know what it is about?”

 

“I’m afraid not my lord. It is unfortunately a matter of utmost importance and not a word can be spared. Mums the word as they say.” Mathis let his voice drop into a more ominous though still polite tone. “I advise you impress the importance of that on Maester Martyn and anyone he has spoken too. Lest more drastic measures need be taken to ensure their silence.”

 

Orton looked like he had swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

 

Mathis shrugged his broad shoulders. “Martyn is in his chambers?”

 

“Yes. My lord.” Lord Merryweather seemed shaken.

 

Mathis left his half eaten luncheon on the table and clapped Orton on the shoulder as he passed him by, provoking a small jump from the smaller man. Mathis whistled a mindless tune as he trudged through the long low halls of Longtable. He chortled to himself as he saw the bare patches on the walls that revealed where tapestries had once hung. They had likely been sold to maintain the lifestyle Lord Orton’s wife, the Lady Taena, had enjoyed in Myr.

 

Still whistling Mathis arrived at the maester’s chambers and bumped the door open with his hip. “Ah Maester Martyn just the man I wanted to see. I trust you are having a wonderful day!”

 

The older maester jumped and nearly spilled and small bowl filled with a black powder. Mathis’ heart lept into his throat at the sight. “Have you? Is that what I think it is?”

 

The maester’s long grey beard bobbed about as Martyn nodded. “Yes my lord. It took me some time to identify the materials in the sample you gave me.”

 

Mathis rubbed his throat as he remembered how he discovered the sample. It had been on the second day of the march from Bitterbridge he had been parched and had seen a soldier run up to him with what looked like a waterskin. Grateful Mathis had grabbed the horn-like waterskin and had taken a great gulp. But instead of water he had been inundated by a wave of horrible tasting black pellets that had quickly dissolved into a foul sludge. After coughing up half his lungs and using a small lake’s worth of water to wash the foul stuff out his mouth Mathis had managed to cough out a question. “What is this?”

 

The soldier answered with a grin. “Something those dragonmen were carrying, some o’ us was playin’ around with it las’ night and it got tossed in a fire. An’ then, whoosh!” The man raised his arms at the last word. “The fire went shooting up twenty feet high! Pate thought it was wildfire, but I figured you’d wanna see it m’lord.”

 

“You thought right,” Mathis opened his purse and tossed and pair of silver stags at the man.

 

Mathis shook himself from his small reverie and returned his attention to the maester. “Yes the err sample. What are these materials exactly?”

 

“Charcoal, saltpetre, and sulphur.”

 

“Sulphur?”

 

“Better known as brimstone my lord.”

 

“Ahh… I see. Is it dangerous like this?”

 

“I shouldn’t think so my lord. Not without a flame to spark it.”

 

“Hmmm and the dragon itself?”

 

“Oh yes, I had master Barton, the smith, take a look,” Maester Martyn tottered over to another table and removed a cloth to reveal the dragon. “The tube is simple enough to make and the mechanism at the back is not much more complicated than that of a crossbow. From the residue and staining I’ve determined that one would load powder into the tube and onto this little pan here.” Martyn pointed near the rear of the weapon where the mechanism was fastened under a lever that held a length of thick cord.

 

“Once the powder is placed the trigger underneath may be pulled,” Martyn did just that letting the level flick down wards and having the cord strike the pan. “If the cord is aflame then the powder will be sparked and the fires will travel through this little hole into the tube where the rest of the powder is stored.” Martyn smiled as he finished his lecture, he was clearly pleased with himself.

 

“And that is what would kill someone? The fire from the powder?”

 

“Oh no certainly not,” Martyn opened a small box next to the dragon. “These are what kill people.” Martyn dropped a small metal ball, a little larger than the knuckle of his thumb, into Mathis’ hand.

 

 _Heavier than it looks_. He rolled the ball through his fingers for a few seconds. “Is this lead?”

 

“Yes. I’m not sure why they used such a soft metal for the balls surely a steel or iron ball would be much better. The ball is put in the tube after the powder I think. Then the fires send the ball flying faster than any arrow.”

 

“Did the smith say whether or not he could build one of these?”

 

“I thought you’d ask that,” Martyn smiled. “I had him start already.”

 

“Excellent work, Maester Martyn, excellent work. I have one other request, would you be so kind as to send a raven to Goldengrove for me?”

 

“Of course my lord, what would you like to say?”

 

“Simply inform my lady wife that I will be returning with twenty thousand men and that the granaries should be prepared for their hunger, and that she should try to stockpile as much charcoal, saltpetre and brimstone as possible,” Mathis said that last part with a grin.

 

“Yes... my lord.”

 

“Fantastic! Have a good day.” Mathis swept the dragon off the table as he left the maester's chamber. He swung the weapon over his shoulder as he jaunted through the halls, out of the keep, across the courtyard, and into the smithy.

 

The smith was hard at work doing something that Mathis was sure was actually very important. He hadn't noticed that Mathis had entered the smithy.

 

Mathis coughed politely, he waited, then coughed again. The smith was either ignoring him or else couldn’t hear him. Mathis frowned and then shrugged his shoulders before marching forward to tap the smith on his broad back. The result was rather louder and more colourful than Mathis had expected.

 

“Fuck! Damn! Shit your mother! You Bloody!” The smith swore as he turned hammer raised and clearly ready to beat someone half to death. He paused for a moment when he saw Mathis.  “Er that is to say, what can I do for you, m’lord.”

 

Mathis spoke as if he had not heard a word the smith had uttered before that point. “Maester Martyn said you were working on one of these,” Mathis swung the dragon around. “I’d like to see what you’ve got so far.”

 

“O’ course m’lord. Jus’ this way if you please.” The smith led Mathis into a back room of the smithy and towards a locked chest. “Martyn said I should keep it locked up when I ain’t workin’ on it,” he fetched a ring of keys from his desk and twisted the massive lock open, he reached inside and plucked out… a long slightly misshapen tube of metal accompanied by a bag of assorted odds and ends. He seemed to sense Mathis’ distaste. “Now it ain’t finished yet, an’ it won’t be as pretty as the one you got but it should get the job done m’lord. An’ besides it’s only a first try.”

 

 _Fair points fair points_. “I imagine the first sword didn’t look very fancy either,” jested Mathis.

 

“Aye m’lord I’d wager it didn’t. Now these ‘ere are the lock mechanism,” the smith swiped a patch of table bare and poured the contents of the bag out. “Finicky little things they were but not much ‘arder to make than a crossbow.”

 

“Hmmm,” Mathis poked around the metal pieces on the table. “That’s interesting. That is very interesting. How long until you have finished the rest?”

 

“Mayhaps another few days m’lord. I still must hollow the bore o’ the tube and make the chamber for the powder.”

 

“Work on nothing else until this is done.” The smith seemed about to argue. “I’ll speak to Lord Merryweather you worry about nothing else.” Mathis clapped the smith on his shoulder and pushed the half finished dragon into his arms.

 

Mathis jaunted out of the smithy almost skipping like one of his young girls, he was so happy he even began to hum tuneless rhyme to himself.

 

_A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go_

_(Heigh-ho, the derry-o, a-hunting we will go_

_A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go)_

_We'll catch a stag and put him in a bag_

_And then we'll let him go_

He snorted. _Or perhaps not that last part_.

 

Davos

 

With painstaking caution Davos slowly moved his fingertips down the line as he mouthed every letter. “Mill be? No. Will be. Ummm. Iven? No that’s not right.”

 

Davos leaned further out of his chair almost touching his nose to the page before looking up. “What's this word?”

 

Dyrrik, Davos’ scribe and tutor, leaned over from the chair next to Davos. “It says given, the first letter makes a _g_ sound, now start again.”

 

“But in knight the _g_ doesn’t make a sound,” Davos shook his head. “This makes no sense. Why doesn’t every letter make a sound? And if they don’t make a sound why are they in the word?”

 

Dyrrik sighed. “I could give a long and complicated explanation but I’d rather not waste both our time. Some words are just spelt oddly and you’ll have to remember which ones. Now start from the beginning m’lord.”

 

Davos repressed a grumble and began to, haltingly, reread the document again. “By the command of His Race. His Grace Stannis of the Hoose.” Davos stopped for a breath. “House Baratheon, King of the Andals the Rhoynar and the First Men...”

 

With some difficulty Davos read through all the titles and other such fanciness until he reached his previous highwater mark. “Ser Bonnifer Hasty be given the… The honour of a place in the… Wan?... Van?... Vanguard! In the vanguard.”

 

With a sigh of relief Davos tossed the parchment, an official list of all the honours and titles doled out after the Field of Fire.

 

Dyrrik nodded approvingly. “Very good my lord. Now read this one.” The scribe placed another sheaf of parchment on the folding table.

 

With a groan Davos began to reach for the gods damned parchment and another few painful hours, but instead the gods took mercy on him as one of his guards opened the tent flap. “My lord. Ser Justin Massey asks to see you.”

 

“Send him in,” Davos said, perhaps a little too quickly.

 

The guard nodded and a few seconds later a disheveled, but still smiling, Justin Massey entered the tent. Massey gave a low bow. “My Lord, I trust you have been well in my long absence.”

 

Davos nodded. “As well as can be expected,” he raised a brow. “You’re here to give your report about Bitterbridge?”

 

Massey nodded and was about to speak but Davos cut him off.

 

“You must be tired have a seat,” Davos waved at a folding stool. “Have a drink,” he poured well watered wine into a pair of small cups and pushed one across the desk to Massey.

 

Massey accepted the cup with a grin and a flourish. “Thank you my lord.”

 

As Massey drank Davos eyed the bloodstains in Massey’s surcoat. Stains that had not been there before Massey left for Bitterbridge. “What happened at Bitterbridge?”

 

Massey finished his wine and put the empty cup on the table. “We rode hard for over two weeks shadowing the forces of Lord Rowan. He arrived at Bitterbridge before us and set about to gathering supporters. Ser Erren and I arrived not long after he did, perhaps a quarter of an hour at most, and began to do the same thing.”

 

Davos leaned forward as his interest grew. “And then?”

 

“Chaos. Madness. Fire and Blood. Everything went to the Seven Hells. There was near sixty thousand men at Bitterbridge before the fighting, and none of them knew what was going on when the battle started. Grudges that had been buried for a hundred years erupted into bloodshed. Still we had the initiative so it was not long before the rebels began to surrender or flee or die.”

 

“And which was Lord Rowan?”

 

“Fled along with over five thousand men by my best guess.”

 

“Was he the only person to do so?”

 

Here Massey seemed to grow uncomfortable. “In the chaos it seems that a goodly portion of the army fled, though only a minority kept any sense of order.”

 

“How much is a goodly portion?”

 

“Perhaps thirty thousand men.”

 

Davos went still and silent for a moment. “Half the host of Bitterbridge is a good deal more than a “goodly portion” Ser.” Davos rubbed his face. “On to better news. How did the dragons perform?”

 

Massey brightened. “Excellently my lord. Wherever and whenever the enemy tried to make a strong point they were shot down by dragonfire.”

 

“How many casualties did your company take?”

 

“A dozen most to archers or crossbowmen.”

 

“Most?”

 

Massey paused for a moment. “Ser Erren and I attempted to make a cordon around the camp of mixed knights and squads of dragonmen Lord Rowan breached breached the cordon where it was weak and killed a dozen dragonmen.”

 

“What did you do with them?”

 

“Their equipment was stripped and the men were buried with the rest of our dead.”

 

“Bring their dragons to me and I will have them repaired. After King’s Landing falls the King intends to make more dragons and arm as many men as possible with them. The Street of Steel will be put to work making thousands of dragons. With these weapons at the fore none will be able to challenge his grace at land or at sea.”

 

Massey fell into an uncharacteristic silence.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“A dozen dragonmen fell, but only eleven dragons were recovered. I think it safe to assume that it was taken by one of Lord Rowan’s men.”

 

Davos straightened in alarm. “Have you told the king?”

 

“Ser Erren is speaking to him now.”

 

“Nevertheless we must speak to His Grace immediately,” Davos stood. “Follow me.”

 

With Ser Justin and his dragon armed in tow Davos left the tent and made his way through the immense camp in the Kingswood. The camp was even more crowded than before as thousands of infantry from Bitterbridge marched into the camp.

 

Davos’ dragonmen were near the center of the camp separated from the rest of the masses by a lane ten yards wide. King Stannis’ pavilion was just north of the dragonmen camp, it was in turn surrounded by his closest guards, Dragonstone men one and all, and now the small white tent set aside for His Grace’s nascent Kingsguard.

 

The guards let Davos and Massey past them without incident and Davos walked up to the pavilion with a confidence he did not feel. After a momentary pause to gather himself he entered.

 

Ser Erren Florent was speaking. “Some five thousand left dead,” he stopped to look at the sound of Davos entering the pavilion. King Stannis had assembled many of his lords and commanders he was flanked by his Kingsguard and Lord Alester sat at his right hand.

 

Davos bowed to the king. “Your Grace,” he faced the others. “My Lords.”

 

The king spoke. “Be seated Lord Seaworth,” he motioned at an empty chair three spots to the left of the king.

 

With only a little trepidation Davos gently pushed through the crowded pavilion and occupied the seat. Stannis returned his attention to Ser Erren. “Continue.”

 

“I returned with fifteen thousand men under arms. Having left five thousand under the command of Ser Mark Mullendore to garrison Bitterbridge after Lord Caswell bent the knee. The outriders reported that Lord Mathis Rowan fled the field with near six thousand men and was headed towards Longtable to gather others who fled. Ser Mark is doing the same from Bitterbridge.”

 

Stannis nodded his acknowledgement. “You have our gratitude for your leal service Ser. Was the anything else to report?”

 

“None that I can say Your Grace.”

 

“Then you are dismissed, see to your command,” as Ser Erren left King Stannis turned to his Hand Lord Alester. “What news from the marches?”

 

Lord Alester cleared his throat before he answered. “Lords Trant, Grandison, Caron, Selmy have sent their fealty and promise to conduct the land surveys you requested and gather additional levies. Though they did ask for some promises in return.”

 

“Once they have done their duty there may be time to speak of rewards.”

 

“Just so Your Grace. Lord Swann is more reticent he speaks that his son Ser Balon is held captive by the Lannisters and as such he dares not move to your service.”

 

Stannis ground his teeth. “Tell Lord Swann that he must begin the surveys before the next moon, but that until his son is free he need not gather levies in my name. What of Dondarrion?”

 

“With the disappearance of Lord Beric, his cousin and heir Ser Daven has command of the castle. He refuses to swear for any king until word is given that Lord Beric has sworn his sword so or else that his death is confirmed.”

 

Stannis ground his teeth but nodded again. “Cape Wrath?”

 

“Every Lord has sent their fealty to you Your Grace save for House Tudburry, who declare you a kinslayer and a traitor.”

 

Stannis clenched a fist and ground his teeth. “Instruct Lord Casper Wylde, and Lady Mary Mertyns to seize the the Tudburry lands and imprison Lord Merret for judgement.”

 

Lord Alester wrote this down. “Yes Your Grace, did you wish for anything else.”

 

Stannis eyed Davos. “No. You are dismissed my lord,” Stannis waved his hand at the other lords. “See to your commands the van will leave at dawn tomorrow the rest an hour after. Lord Seaworth, Ser Justin stay.”

 

Davos sat in silence as all the other lords filed out leaving Davos and Justin alone with the king and the kingsguard.

 

Stannis spoke first. “I presume you are here to discuss Ser Justin’s actions at Bitterbridge.”

 

“Yes Your Grace.”

 

“Very well my lord you may proceed.”

 

Davos decided to jump straight to the most critical piece of news. “Several dragonmen were killed and it seems some of the hand-dragons were captured my Lord Rowan’s troops.”

 

Stannis went utterly still for a moment. “Ser Justin leave us.”

 

Ser Justin all but ran from the pavilion.

 

Stannis stood and leaned over the table. “I shall be true with you Lord Davos. I am not surprised by this event, though by no means am I content. I fear that the spread of these weapons is inevitable whether by the spoils of war or by these _Beikango_ ,” Stannis used the foreigner's name for themselves. “Knowledge will spread, like iron and steel were spread by the Andals to the First Men.”

 

Stannis opened a leather case and pulled from it a sheaf of parchment. “Letters from my lords bannermen. They speak of strange ships sighted in the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea. Strange ships crewed by strange men speaking a strange tongue.”

 

“The foreigners. The _Beikango_.”

 

“Yes. The ships that landed on Dragonstone were crewed by exiles seeking refuge. These new ships I think are from their kingdoms, their cities. They seek trade and soon will find a vast and willing market for their dragons.”

 

Stannis looked over the map of Westeros that dominated the table. “The world is changing and we must change with it if we are to survive. A common man killed a would be king, a thousand men of ancient lineage lie buried below the walls of Storm’s End, the time of the knight is over and the age of dragons has come again.” He returned his focus to Davos. “Tomorrow you will ride with the van and journey with all haste to King’s Landing there you will find and prepare the best positions to place the dragons when the siege begins.”

 

“Yes Your Grace.”

 

“Inform Ser Justin Massey that I am displeased, but that there will be no formal chastisement. You are dismissed.”

 

“Yes Your Grace,” Davos left his king alone in his pavilion.

 

Tyrion

 

From the walls of the Red Keep Tyrion watched Flea Bottom burn. The riot had started not long after Myrcella had been put on her ship sent to Dorne by way of Braavos. Wildfire or no Stannis wouldn’t dare rise the wrath of the Bastard Daughter of Valyria. The plan had been for Cersei, Joffrey, and Tommen to slip away with during the night, that couldn’t happen now. Not with the riots still consuming half the city.

 

What was supposed to have been a simple bit of riding from King’s Landing to Goldengrove was turning out to be much more complicated. Rather than riding hard and fast Cersei insisted on bringing every person of any possible value with them. Sansa Stark, the Redwyne twins, and Balon Swann Tyrion could understand they had value as hostages. Particularly the Redwynes as if they fell into Stannis’ hands his might at sea would be unquestionable. But Dontos Hollard or the Kettleblacks? Pure nonsense. What use could she have for the Stokeworths or her other handmaidens but to pad the court with her lickspittles.

 

Footsteps drew his attention away from the city, Bronn was sauntering over to him. “You sure you want me to go with the queen and the rest?”

 

“Could I trust you not to throw open the gates to Stannis?”

 

Bronn shrugged. “Likely not.”

 

“Then you see why I’m sending you. Besides the king will have need of every sword he can get.”

 

“Oh and why’s that?”

 

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “You hadn’t heard?”

 

“Heard about what?”

 

“Bitterbridge. According to Varys near half of Renly’s foot went over to Stannis. Almost thirty thousand men.”

 

Bronn leaned against a crenellation and tilted a wineskin back. He breathed through his teeth. “Well you’re right fucked then. What’d your father have at the Green Fork twenty five thousand?”

 

“Closer to twenty thousand.”

 

“That’s even worse then. You’re outnumbered about three to one and Stannis has wildfire.”Bronn shook his head. “I don’t like those odds.”

 

“Neither do I. Which is why the Tyrell marriage is so important.”

 

“How many men do they have?”

 

“Lord Mace Tyrell has near ten thousand men at Highgarden.”

 

“So your only outnumbered two to one.”

 

Tyrion closed his eyes and took a deep breath. _He’s just trying to annoy you_ , _don’t let him know it’s working_.

 

“And Lord Mathis Rowan is gathering survivors of Bitterbridge at Longtable. As of the last reports from Varys he’s gathered near fifteen thousand men.”

 

Bronn paused as his eyes crossed trying to juggle the numbers in his head and on his fingers. “You’re still outnumbered.”

 

“Which is why we must bleed Stannis here, and after that make Stannis come to us.”

 

“To your family you mean.”

 

“What?”

 

“If you’re commanding the defence then you’re either going to die, get captured, or cut and run like any sane person would do.”

 

“Am I not sane?”

 

“You’re a noble. The maesters take your sanity along with your birth cord.”

 

Given the nobles Tyrion had gotten to know of the years he found himself hard pressed to defend against that statement.

 

Tyrion watched a thousand sparks rise into the sky as a building collapsed. He sighed and walked away from another of Joffrey’s blunders. “Goodnight Bronn.”

 

“Goodnight m’lord.”

 

By the next morning the fires had died and the mobs were dispersed. The Small Council chamber was again filled as Littlefinger relayed the damages.

 

“Five butchers were butchered with their own knives. A goldsmith was murdered and his manse burned. The High Septon was ripped apart. Tyrek Lannister is still missing as is Lollys Stokeworth they are both presumed dead. A third of Flea Bottom is in ashes. And severe damage was done to many shops along River Row and Cobbler’s Square.” Baelish paused a moment. “Twelve dead gold cloaks and forty more wounded. And countless hundreds of smallfolk killed and maimed or left homeless.” Baelish let the scroll roll up onto itself.

 

Cersei snorted. “The should count themselves lucky that Joffrey will be leaving soon else they’d have more to worry about than their burned houses.”

 

Tyrion rolled his eyes at that. “Aside from King’s Landing does the Master of Whispers have any other news of the war?”

 

Varys simpered. “No more than yesterday I’m afraid, Stannis’ host continues to make it’s way through the kingswood towards King’s Landing, while some fighting continues between Stannis and the Tyrells in the eastern parts of the Reach. Robb Stark continues to ravage the Westerlands, though he has broken his siege of the Crag, perhaps he means to return east or else north to fight the Ironmen?”

 

“What of my father?” Asked Cersei.

 

“Lord Tywin remains Harrenhal as his men ravage the Riverlands. What his intentions are besides that I do not know.”

 

Tyrion fixed his gaze on Cersei. “Cersei it is past time that you and your children leave King’s Landing. My clansmen are already skirmishing with Stannis’ outriders in the Kingswood. If you wait much longer Stannis’ men will block the road to Goldengrove.”

 

Cersei frowned and continued to frown until Tyrion was began to fear she had fallen asleep with her eyes open. Just as he was about to speak she sighed. “Alright we will leave tonight now if you will excuse me I want to rest. I have a long night ahead of me.” Cersei stood and left the chamber with Ser Meryn Trant in tow.

 

Tyrion turned to his other lords of the Small Council. “Was there anything else to discuss?” Varys, Pycelle, and Littlefinger both shook their heads. “Then I bid you all a good day.” Tyrion stood and returned to his chambers

 

That night Tyrion waited at the gates of the Red Keep with Chella, Timett, and their respective clansmen. A dozen wagons were being loaded with the various necessities for a party that would be moving quickly and heavily armed. Nearly a hundred mounted red cloaks and twice that number of gold cloaks were already massed around the party. He saw the Stark girl being escorted into a wagon along with Cersei and the remaining Stokeworth ladies. The Redwyne twins were mounted and guarded by a quartet of red cloaks. Tyrion saw Bronn and his sellswords near the back of the party laughing and joking. Varys was entering a wagon near the center of the party while Littlefinger had mounted a horse near the rear.

 

As Tyrion watched the gates opened and the wagons began to move out. He looked up at the two mountain chieftains. “This is where we part ways I’m afraid. Good fortune to you both.”

 

Timett nodded in silence but Chella waited a moment. “Good fortune to you as well halfman.”

 

As Tyrion watched his sister, his guards, his nephews, and all the rest of the great and bad of the court depart in the night he felt an odd sense of melancholy. _That might have been the last time I’ll ever see any of my siblings_.

 

Tyrion heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw a dishevelled looking Lancel watching as well. “Are you ready to be a king?”

 

Lancel turned slightly green but straightened his back raised his chin and in a passable imitation of Joffrey said. “I don’t want your opinion you little monster.”

 

“I’ll take that as a yes. Go hide in the royal chambers for a few days. We can tell the people that you’re indisposed and heartbroken over the departure of your beloved mother and siblings. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get some sleep,” Tyrion took a few steps away but stopped, turned and bowed low. “Your Grace.”

 

In the comfort of his chambers Tyrion poured himself a goblet of wine and rested back in his most comfortable chair. He eyed a small bell on the nearby table. With a sigh he rang the bell and a servant opened the door. Tyrion smiled as he eyed her. The woman swayed over to him and kneeled down by the chair. “Does my lion need his sheets laundered?” Shae asked with a little pout.

 

Tyrion reached under her shift. “I had something else in mind.”

 

Tyrion rose the next morning with a strange energy about him the melancholy of the previous night banished by wine and by Shae. He had never seen the Red Keep so empty, but it didn’t matter King’s Landing was his to command. No more politicking and none of Cersei’s stupidity to stop him. _For the next few weeks at least I might as well be a king_.

 

For his first bit of business Tyrion, with a guard of clansmen and gold cloaks, made a visit to the Street of Steel where hammers were banging away. Tyrion entered the shop of Tobho Mott a number of apprentices and journeymen were hard at work but stopped at the sight of a dozen armed men entering the shop. Master Mott himself was beside a young apprentice, likely giving the las some pointers. “Get back to work,” he snapped at his workers. The master armourer jerked his head towards the stairs and proceeded to lead Tyrion into the, relatively, quieter upstairs. “What can I do for you my lord?”

 

“How goes work on the chain?”

 

“It proceeds as well as could be expected. Another month maybe a month and a half and it’ll be done.”

 

Tyrion grimaced. “I’m afraid we don’t have a month let alone a month and a half. The rebel scouts are already nearing the Blackwater and their van might be less than a week away. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you and your fellow smiths to work harder if the chain is to be finished.”

 

Mott’s eyes hardened. “We’re already working as hard as we can for the chain we only stop to eat and sleep.”

 

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go without food and sleep for a few days unless you want to have your shop burned and your apprentices killed by Stannis’ men after his ships sail unopposed up the Blackwater. Now if you’ll excuse me I have other business to attend today.”

 

Mott didn’t seem impressed by the threat Stannis posed in fact he seemed angered.

 

 _I’ve done naught but state a few honest truths_.

 

As he entered his carriage Tyrion motioned for the gold cloak sergeant. “Put some men at each smithy, keep them working as much as is possible.”

 

The man nodded. “Yes my lord.”

 

“Good,” Tyrion turned to his driver. “Take me to the Carpenters Guild I have work for them.”

 

The next few days passed in a blur as Tyrion all but ran from one end of the city to the other dealing with dozens of minor crises that would have been handled by the underlings of the underlings of Littlefinger. He had to smooth over the ruffled feathers of a dozen guilds who demanded payment for things Tyrion didn’t even know existed. The Alchemist’s in particular were displeased that all production of wildfire was to cease and that much of the existing stores were to be locked up under their guildhouse. Tyrion kept only enough of the substance to fill a single ship with wildfire.

 

He placed as much pressure as he could on the smiths of the Street of Steel to finish the chain with the guards in place the smiths worked even harder to finish the great chain. But it was not enough. Only a week after Cersei had left Stannis’ van of near five thousand men arrived on the southern bank of the Blackwater. The chain was over fifty links short.


	4. Chapter 4 (Arya, Catelyn, Sansa)

Arya

 

Weese woke Arya with a kick well before dawn. “Get goin’ to the kitchens n’ give this ta smith.” He handed her a note and cuffed her on the head. “Now off with you.” With a grunt the squat man waddled off to kick more servants awake.

 

Arya ran before she could incur more kicks and cuffs from Weese. She ran out of the Wailing Tower and into the courtyard heading not towards the kitchens but instead to where she had found a small alcove where the stairs ran up the Wailing Tower.

 

A shadow passed overhead making Arya lookup. She saw ravens streaming out of the Kingspyre Tower.

 

Safe and sound in the alcove she turned her attention back to the note and read it. It was a list detailing bread and cheese and beer and salted pork that must be loaded into barrels and then onto wagons. The numbers ran on and on but to Arya the conclusion was obvious.

 

_ Lord Tywin is leaving Harrenhal _ .

 

Arya sat stunned for a moment as she tried to make sense of this.  _ Jaqen _ !  _ I have to find Jaqen _ .

 

She considered the note for a moment.  _ It can wait _ .

 

She stuffed the note into her shift and then ran to the barracks. She ran past dozens of liveried men-at-arms who, like always, ignored her. She was just another little grey mouse that ran through the walls and towers of Harrenhal.

 

The barracks and armoury were busier than she had ever seen them hundreds of men crowded the narrow passages and wide halls carrying bundles of arrows and bow staves, spear shafts and sword blades, and racks of mail and gambesons.She saw men putting rusty coats of mail into barrels filled with sand then rolling them around the yard.

 

She ran up and down a dozen sets of stairs, from one hall to another and back again. She couldn’t find Jaqen anywhere. She was on the verge of leaving but a hand grabbed her shoulder and forced her into a wall she struggled to turn around but the broad hand was to strong.

 

From the corner of her eye she saw someone moving up beside her. It was Rorge glaring at her  with his beady eyes and noseless face. She looked down and saw that the hand holding her was pale and clammy.  _ Biter _ .

 

“What do ya want ya littl’ twat?” Rorge menaced while Biter, still holding her to the wall, only hissed.

 

“Where’s Jaqen?”

 

Rorge seemed taken aback by the question, and Biter’s grip on Arya lessened letting her struggle around and place her back to the wall while she glared at the two men.

 

Rorge managed to recover his courage and snorted through the hole on his face.“Why should I tell you? Why shouldn’t I drag you into one o’ the beds upstairs and fuck you bloody?”

 

Arya kept silent for a moment. “Because Jaqen owes me and if you hurt me he’ll hurt you.”

 

Rorge sneered at her but answered her nonetheless. “He’s on guard duty at the East Gate. Better hurry we and the rest o’ the Brave Companions are headin’ out with the van tomorrow.”

 

With a nod from Rorge, Biter released Arya letting her walk away from the two monsters with a calm that she didn’t feel.  _ Fear cuts deeper than swords _ . She turned a corner away from the pair.  _ Fear cuts deeper than swords _ . She controlled herself until she left the armoury and entered the courtyard that surrounded it. From there she ran to the east gate.  _ I’m not scared I’m just in a hurry that’s all _ .

 

The east gate wasn’t used nearly as much as the main gate in the northern walls so the soldiers standing guard were all chatting among themselves, except for one. Jaqen, easily distinguished by his divided red and white hair, was leaning next to a wall far apart from the rest of the soldiers. She ran towards the Lorathi.

 

Jaqen spoke without looking at her. “A girl is in a rush.”

 

Arya panted. “Rorge said you’re leaving Harrenhal.”

 

Jaqen, still not looking at her, shrugged. “A man spoke the truth.”

 

“But you can’t! I haven’t said all three names.”

 

Jaqen finally turned to look at Arya. “A man must do what another man orders. Perhaps a girl can think of two names to name.”

 

Arya paused for a moment. “Weese.”

 

Jaqen nodded. “And a second name if a girl wishes.”

 

Arya furrowed her brows in thought.

 

“A girl has time to think. A man does not leave until noon tomorrow.”

 

“No. I. I can think of another name.” Arya bit her lip, thinking hard on everyone in Harrenhal. Who was cruel and who was not. There was only one choice. “Gregor Clegane.”

 

That name made even Jaqen raise an eyebrow. “A man is strong and fast and more clever than a man appears. It will take time, but it will be done.if the day comes when you would find me again, give that coin to any man from Braavos, and say these words to him valar morghulis."

 

"Valar morghulis," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. “Thank you Jaqen.” She turned to deliver the Weese’s message to the kitchens, only an hour late.

 

That night Weese beat her. “Stupid little bitch!” He slapped her across the face. “Can’t even deliver a fucking note in good time!” He threw her onto the floor. “How fucking stupid are you!” A lash from his switch.

 

Arya squeezed her hands so hard her nails cut her hands, anything not to cry. But despite her best efforts Weese’s switch and kicks drew forth her tears.  _ It doesn’t matter what you do to me you whoreson _ .  _ Tomorrow you’ll be dead _ ! The beating lasted for near on ten minutes before Weese, red faced and gasping, gave a final kick and threw the switch at Arya’s head.

 

Arya crawled into her bed and recited her names. “Weese,” she whispered for the last time. After some thought she added. “The Mountain,” one last time as well, he might still be walking but he was already dead he just didn’t know it yet.

 

Instead of kicks it was screams that woke Arya the next morning. She pulled herself up with a curse as the welts and bruises on her body screamed against the straw bedding. She saw a serving woman fleeing Weese’s chamber. With a groan Arya pushed herself to her feet and tottered to the door.

 

Weese and his bed were covered in blood. With a snap of her jaws the Weese’s little spotted bitch took another bite out Weese’s neck.

 

“Had that bitch since she was a pup.” Someone said behind Arya.

 

“This place is cursed,” said another. “Twill be good to leave.”

 

A man shouldered Arya aside and took aim with a crossbow. He shot the dog as she began to worry Weese’s neck. Arya stepped back and turned away from the dead man and the dead dog. She expected to see Jaqen watching with fingers on his cheek, like with Chiswyck, but no the walls were empty, save for more servants wanting to see proof of Weese’s death themselves.

 

Arya did see Jaqen that day. He was in the company of the Bloody Mummers as they rode out of Harrenhal in the van commanded by Ser Addam Marbrand. The Mountain and his men rode with them. As Jaqen rode through the gates he raised a hand and extended two fingers.

 

With Weese dead there was no one to give Arya or the other servants commands, or rather no one for the rest of the day at least, so Arya spent her time on the walls watching endless lines of infantry and cavalry leave Harrenhal. The van had started leaving in the morning and had finished by noon. The main force under Lord Tywin himself marched a few hours after that. Taking the rest of the day to do so. The host left by the main gate and then turned west.

 

No one knew where the host was going, Arya had overheard Goodwife Amabel saying that Lord Tywin meant to take Riverrun, while Pinkeye said Lord Tywin was going to the west to trap the Young Wolf in the mountains and crush him, and Ben Blackthumb the smith said Lord Tywin was heading west to trick enemy scouts and that soon he’d go back round the God’s Eye and fall on Lord Stannis, who had killed his brother Lord Renly, and was now marching on King’s Landing.

 

It was Pinkeye who replaced Weese as understeward of the Wailing Tower. And Ser Amory Lorch who remained to garrison Harrenhal with three hundred men. Harrenhal had seemed vast with twenty thousand men within it’s walls, but now it seemed empty. Only the Wailing Tower remained in use the rest were abandoned again to be the domains of bats and rats.

 

Pinkeye proved to be an easier master than Weese. He was no less foul mouthed but despite his threats and his drink fueled rages he never beat any of the servants. One would think that with far fewer people there would be far fewer tasks. But Arya was a busy as ever running errands for Pinkeye that sent her all over the castle. But Pinkeye was lax enough that Arya could often slip away and sit atop the walls to watch sunrise or sunset where she would break her fast or have her supper.

 

It was because of that that Arya was the first to see the growing cloud of dust to Harrenhal’s north. A minute later horns blew to summon the garrison. From where she sat Arya saw Ser Amory Lorch huff and puff his way to the walls and take aim with a Myrish Eye.  _ Was Blackthumb right is Lord Tywin coming back _ ?  _ Or did Robb beat him _ ?

 

Ser Amory gave her the answer. The bandy legged knight returned the eye to it’s leather sheath. “Bolton,” he said. “And ten thousand cattle-fucking, frozen dicked, Northmen with him.”

 

Arya stayed up late watching the northern army gather around Harrenhal and lay siege.

 

Catelyn

Since arriving at Riverrun Catelyn spent most of her time in her father’s solar, sitting beside him in the wheeled chair Edmure had had fashioned, watching the Tumblestone and the Red Fork meet below the walls of Riverrun. Beyond the rivers were fields and forests and hills. And far in the east she could see a haze on the horizon that Edmure told her was smoke. Lord Tywin was on the march from Harrenhal, and once more the Riverlands would suffer and burn.

Edmure met with her every night to talk, usually about the war, but on other things as well, their childhood, Lysa, Petyr, Ned, her children. He spoke on how he had gathered eleven thousand men to meet Lord Tywin if he tried to cross the Red Fork. How his outriders, led by Marq Piper, were scouting and skirmishing with Lord Tywin’s raiders, chief among them Ser Gregor Clegane and the Bloody Mummers led by the foul Qohorik, Vargo Hoat.

It was evening now and she had eaten her supper alone, save for her father and Septa Gisella who watched over her. For a few days she had tried to tempt the septa into conversation but the younger woman was overly courteous and too shy to speak comfortably with her queen.

Edmure was late today, but she had expected that, Maester Vyman had told Catelyn that her brother was riding to inspect the fords, and the men who held them, near Riverrun. This had been mentioned when Maester Vyman came to examine her wounds. According to Vyman they were almost healed and soon only scars would remain.  _ Scars and this damned chair _ !

From her position on the balcony Catelyn could see the gates of Riverrun begin to open, but it was not the fish-crested helms and blue and red cloaks of Tully men who rode through the gates. Rather these men wore simpler armour and bore worn white and grey cloaks, stained red and brown in places. In the midst of this mass of riders was Robb, auburn haired and red bearded with Grey Wind at his side. Her son dismounted and passed the reins of his horse to his squire. He walked out of the courtyard and Catelyn’s sight.

Twas not long before the door to her lord father’s solar opened letting Robb enter. Before he could say anything her son was pushed aside by the great grey bulk of Grey Wind who crossed the room in a single great leap. She heard Robb laugh and Septa Gisella shriek as Grey Wind buried his nose into her stomach and then turned his head up to lick her face. Her chair creaked alarmingly as it skidded over the stones of the balcony and was rammed into the carved stone trout railing.

“Down Grey Wind,” commanded a chuckling Robb as he pulled the beast off of Catelyn by the scruff of his neck. He paused when he saw the chair. “Mother. I. I’d heard what happened but I could scarcely believe it,” he pushed the chair to the center of the balcony and pulled a chair of his own over. “I came as soon as I heard we abandoned the siege of the Crag. The stories are mad half the rumours say Stannis had dragons the other half say wildfire.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “What happened?”

“It was not wildfire or dragons, at least not of the kind you’re thinking of. But I don’t know what else to call them but dragons. They spewed fire and smoke and death.They killed at a great distance far farther than any trebuchet ever built. With them Lord Stannis destroyed a host four times the size of his own and brought the survivors into his fold. My son I have seen the power Stannis has at his command and I tell you there is no army in the Seven Kingdoms that can stand against him.” Catelyn was almost in tears by the end.

“What would you have me do? Bend the knee to Stannis? To the man who almost killed you?” Robb shook his head. “No mother I will not kneel. Not to Stannis.”

“Please. Please don’t fight him.”

Robb grimaced as if in pain. “I can make no promises. I can say only that I have no plans to march against Stannis.” Robb stood. “I’ll see you again on the morrow. Tonight I have business with my vassals. Good night mother.”

Catelyn clenched her hands, digging her nails into her hands, and said nothing.

Septa Gisella approached. “Your Grace do you need-”

“Get out.”

“Your Grace?”

“Get out!”

Septa Gisella left leaving Catelyn alone with her father and the setting sun.

The next day her uncle came to see her first. He looked at his sleeping brother first. “I think this is the most quiet he’s been in decades.” The grey haired knight turned to Cat. “Robb and I spoke last night.”

“About what?”

“About the war. About what happened to you and about what you said to him.”

“I spoke the truth about Stannis.”

“I don’t doubt you think you do. But whatever weapons Stannis has they’re only weapons. Even if they’re as powerful as the dragons of old, what does it matter. Dorne fought them. Dorne beat them and so can we.” Her uncle straightened as he spoke. “I wish Stannis luck in his campaigns the North is vast and far from Dragonstone.”

Catelyn frowned. “The Riverlands are not.”

“Stannis must fight the Lannisters and the Tyrells first.”

“And Robb must fight the Ironmen or else lose the North and if he goes then Tywin and Stannis will take the Riverlands. What did you say to me before I left that the first rule of war, “is never give the enemy his wish,” so what is Robb to do when every choice is the wish of one of his enemies?”

“You want him to sit in Riverrun and do nothing? Or else bend the knee to the man who maimed you? Have you no pride?”

“Have you no sense, ” Catelyn shot back. “The Riverlands are all but spent and Ironmen reave half the North with impunity.”

Ser Brynden shook his head. “You’ll see Cat, Stannis and Tywin will break each other and will have to accept Robb and King in the North and King of the Trident.”

Catelyn gave a bitter laugh. “Stannis will destroy us.”

Brynden shook his head. “You’re hurt Cat. You’re in pain. You’re not thinking right. Perhaps when you’ve calmed down we can speak some more. Goodbye.” Her uncle stood and left her.

From her place on the balcony Catelyn saw riders coming to and from Riverrun. She saw companies of riders on both sides of the Red Fork. Clouds of dust and smoke on the horizon marked where armies marched and where the Riverlands were burning. Edmure came to see her in the evening as he always did.

He looked at Hoster as he sat. “Was he awake at all today?”

“For a little at midday, he kept calling out for Tansy, whoever that is.”

“I’ve never heard of a Tansy, mayhaps I'll ask Uncle Brynden about it. See if he knows anything.” Edmure fell silent. “Robb isn’t happy about what you said to him and to Brynden.”

“If they don’t want to see the truth I can’t make them.”

“Neither of them want to admit that this war can be lost.”

“And you can?”

“When I was captured by the Kingslayer I knew the war was lost. I was wrong then. Now I’m not sure.” He gazed south to where faint clouds of smoke scuttled across the horizon, “Ser Marq’s and Uncle’s outriders finally pierced the raiders Lord Tywin sent out. He’s not marching west. He’s turned south toward the Reach.”

“He’ll seek an alliance with the Tyrells then. Another fifty thousand swords.”

“Less than that. Half of Renly’s foot went over to Stannis.”

“So Robb is only outnumbered two-to-one instead of three-to-one.”

“If he brings all his strength yes...” Edmure sighed. “He’s planning to go south will all the horse and the eleven thousand I gathered to defend to Red Fork. Some seventeen thousand men all told.”

“What of Lord Bolton he has ten thousand men does he not?”

“Yes ten thousand men or close enough Lord Roose lays siege to Harrenhal as we speak. Robb means to smash Tywin in the field and then force the Lannisters and the Tyrells to consent to peace. Then he and uncle will go north take back Winterfell from the Greyjoys and throw the Ironmen out. You’re to stay here until it’s safe for you to go to Winterfell.”

“I don’t get a say?”

“No. It’s one of the few things everyone at the council agreed on. You have to stay safe. You’ve suffered enough in this war.”

“Everyone has suffered enough.”

They sat there brother and sister late into the night watching their father die and their kingdom burn.

 

Sansa

The ride through King’s Landing was quick and boring, for which Sansa was very thankful. She had had her fill of excitement in the riot two days earlier. She was kept in a covered wagon, supposedly for her own safety. Sansa shared the wagon with several other ladies including the ladies of Stokeworth, Tanda and her elder daughter Falyse, the younger Stokeworth sister Lollys was still missing. Most thought her dead.

The wagon rolled through the night and in the early hours of the morning stopped to allow its riders to rest. Sansa stepped from the wagon with the aid of one of her guards, she said a mindless courtesy as she released his hand. King’s Landing was far from sight but the eastern wind brought the stink of the city with it.

The party made a circle from the wagons and made their tents and fires within. Sansa shared her own tent with pair of her ladies-in-waiting.

Sansa was one of the last to wake after the sun had risen. Today she was allowed to ride a horse rather than sit for endless hours in a wagon. A pair of mounted guards were never far from her.  _ It’s not as if I have somewhere to go _ .  _ Without Dontos there is no hope of my escape _ . Without even the faintest hope of escape Sansa allowed her mare to meander from one side of the caravan to another as they followed the Gold Road west.

On the third day from King’s Landing Sansa found herself riding next to Ser Balon Swann. Their guards mingled behind them and the Stormlands knight nodded to her from atop his courser.

“Good morn my lady. Might I speak with you for a time?”

“Of course Ser, it would be my greatest pleasure.”

“I imagine it was a great pain for you to learn that our king has broken his betrothal to you in favour of Lady Margaery.”

“My love for His Grace is eternal. Even if he no longer wishes to marry me I will always be his loyal servant.”

“Even though your lord brother has risen in rebellion?”

“My brother is a rebel and a traitor.”

“An admirable thought my lady and one I hope to hold myself to as well.” At Sansa’s raised eyebrow he continued. “My brother is in Lord Stannis’ army and I think my father is like to swear his fealty to him.”

“I shall pray for their safety Ser, and when the war is won that King Joffrey should show them mercy.”

“I fear that that would take quite a lot of prayer for that,” muttered Ser Balon. He offered Sansa a crooked smile. “I shall make the same prayers for your family as well my lady. Fare thee well.” Ser Balon gave a low bow from his saddle.

“And you Ser.” Sansa replied as Ser Balon rode away. His guards followed him, shouting farewells to her own minders.

That would not be the first time Ser Balon came to see Sansa. He was always courteous and polite, ever acting the perfect knight, but Sansa knew he wanted something. Everyone always wanted something.

On the noon of the tenth day he asked. “Do you like riding my lady?”

“Not particularly,” she admitted. “But tis better than staying in the wagon all day. Of my family it is my sister Arya who loves to ride.”

Ser Balon was silent for several long moments. “Some of the other highborn and I were planning to go on a little hawking trip tomorrow, after we cross the Blackwater. Would you like to join us?”

“I would love to my lord,” Sansa said courteously but without much sincerity.

They crossed the Blackwater early the next day passing over the Gold Lions Bridge. It had been built by King Jaehaerys the bridge had had stone statues of lions plated in gold. But the gold was gone now, and the statues were deformed by weather and time.

Sansa and Ser Balon rode into the countryside not long after accompanied by the Stokeworth ladies, the Redwyne twins, a dozen lesser knights and ladies, and half a hundred guardsmen. Queen Cersei and King Joffrey deigned not to grant them the honour of their presence though little Prince Tommen rode with them accompanied by the old and fat and jowly Ser Boros.

It was Ser Hobber Redwyne who made the first kill of the day his hawk bringing in a plump rabbit. Tommen cried when he saw the rabbit and had to be taken back to the caravan. Ser Balon made a pair of kills a lean hare and a plump grouse, Ser Horas caught a partridge, and the hedge knight Ser Lothar Brune took down a brace of pheasants. Sansa herself was mostly content to simply ride and enjoy the fresh air of the borderlands between Reach and West and Riverlands. Though her own falcon did bring down a small partridge.

They ate well that night with the quarry of the hunt roasted over the fires or else turned into soups and meat pies. All done by the dozen cooks brought by Queen Cersei. As the sun fell and the fires grew brighter wine and ale began to flow. The men drank and sang around the fires and the more they drank the louder they sang. Sansa politely had a small cup of wine, a Dornish red she was told, but had no desire to drink herself silly like she had that day at the Trident. She retired from the festivities when she saw Joffrey begin to partake of the wine. She had no desire to be his plaything. Not tonight.

She woke the next morning to the smell of smoke. Worried, she clambered out of the tent and saw that the cloud of smoke was being blown south over the land by a cold north wind. She grabbed the attention of a nearby guard, a dark haired and dark eyed wolfish man in mail and boiled leather.

“What’s happening? Where’s this smoke coming from?”

“The Riverlands my lady. This is what war smells like.”

“Are we in danger?”

“I doubt it. A good wind will carry smoke from the North to Dorne, we’ll likely never see whoever started these fires..”

Sansa nodded. “Thank you, Ser.”

“I’m no Ser m’lady, just a sellsword.”

But the sellsword was wrong. As the caravan travelled south the smell of smoke only grew thicker and the sky grew darker. When Sansa crested the top of a low hill she turned north and saw the dark clouds rising from the north. Movement on the horizon drew her eyes. A shadow on the earth moving south.  _ Mother have mercy _ .

Before the caravan had, for the comfort of the king and queen, been moving at a leisurely pace now everything unnecessary was abandoned as they made all haste for the safety of Goldengrove. Wagons were abandoned and enough horses to carry them all were bought or stolen from the smallfolk in their path.

As sleep was restricted to only a few hours a night exhaustion bore down on Sansa. Even Joffrey had lost his usual pout in favour of blank exhaustion. Queen Cersei’s hair was tattered and greasy, much like Sansa’s own. Ser Balon Swann’s charming smile was replaced by a rough black beard.

After three days and nights of almost no sleep Sansa was almost too tired to notice that her mare had ceased to walk. Voices roused her attention. She looked and saw men on horseback, whom she’d not seen before. They had trees on their surcoats. Golden trees on silver.  _ The banner of House Rowan _ ,  _ have we reached Goldengrove _ ?

A decent meal and a good night of sleep revealed that they had not reached the seat of House Rowan. Rather Lord Mathis Rowan had come to them, bringing thousands of men with him. Sansa had never seen so many soldiers in one place before and only King’s Landing itself could rival the sheer numbers of men and animals, and the stench that followed them.

Sansa was honoured with a position of some respect when Lord Mathis received King Joffrey with all the respect due to his station. A hundred knights flanked the lord and the king in burnished silver and gold armour bearing waving banners of Rowan’s golden tree, and Joffrey’s lion and stag.

Joffrey, freshly bathed and dressed in a silken doublet, strode towards the kneeling Lord Mathis, he stopped a pace away and stood quietly.

Lord Mathis broke the silence. “Your Grace I, humbly and sincerely, welcome you and your court to my camp.” He paused and bowed even lower. “I offer you my eternal devotion and fealty. Ask what you will of me. My sword, my service is yours.”

Joffrey clasped Lord Mathis by his shoulders and lifted him up. “Rise my lord. You have done much to bring honour to the realm and your house. Rise a champion of the realm. Rise my Master of Laws. Rise my lord and lend your sword to my cause. Strike down the usurpers and the rebels.”

“As you will it Your Grace, so shall it be.”

The host from the north came the next day marching in long thin ranks through the wheat fields.

Again Sansa was given a place of honour to watch their arrival. She watched as King Joffrey, Queen Cersei, Lords Rowan, Baelish, and Varys awaited them. Sansa caught a glint of light from the top of the hill, sunlight on steel. The sound of marching feet was deafening as glints gave was to the steel itself. The steel of spear and lance and pike and halberd. Men and horses marched down the hillslope a tide of steel and cloth. Thousands of armed and armoured men. On their surcoats and barding were unicorns, burning trees, boars, hounds, sea shells, and lions. The golden lion of Lannister. Lord Tywin had come.


	5. Chapter 5 (Tyrion, Davos, Imry)

Tyrion

 

Tyrion spent much of his time on the walls watching Stannis’ van loiter on the the southern bank of the Blackwater. This time, punctuated by the thump of the three trebuchets called the Three Whores, was exceptionally boring, save for one aspect.

 

Tyrion focused his gaze through the Myrish Eye on where a few hundred of Stannis’ troops had stripped to the waist and were now digging trenches, cutting wood, and piling it all into low palisades on the slope of the bank, between the river and the Kingswood. _What are they doing there_?

 

Tyrion spoke to a gold cloaks sergeant. “Have the Whores loose at those trenches.”

 

Tyrion returned his focus to the workers. One man, still in his surcoat, caught his attention or rather the surcoat did. It was grey and black with a small patch of white. _The black ship and onion of Seaworth_ . _What is Stannis’ Onion Knight doing here instead of on his ship_?

 

Despite the efforts of the Three Whores the trenches and palisades were quickly completed by Stannis’ men. _Or are they Seaworth’s men_? Tyrion wondered as he saw men coming to and from the Onion Knight.

 

Ser Jacelyn came to him one morn to ask of him. “Why are you so concerned by the efforts of a smuggler?”

 

“Smuggler he may be but he has Stannis’ trust. Whatever the Onion Knight is doing it was likely ordered by Stannis himself. Though to be true I don’t know what the Onion Knight is up too.”

 

Tyrion would get his answer the next day.

 

Stannis’ army began to trickle in around midday. Thousands of cavalry and infantry marching in great columns beneath the banners of half a hundred houses and above them all the crowned black stag of Baratheon. From where he was on the wall Tyrion could hear the muttering of the gold cloaks as rank upon endless rank exited the Kingswood. _They’re frightened_ , _they think the city will fall the moment Stannis attacks_ . _Best not let them know they’re right_.

 

Tyrion raised his voice. “My father the great lord Tywin once said that a man on the walls is worth ten beneath them! I disagree for the folk of King’s Landing are worth ten men anyway! Stannis would need fifty times more men to have even a chance!”

 

That roused a hearty cheer from the gold cloaks, though it was smaller than Tyrion had hoped it would be.

 

Movement at the trenches again drew Tyrion’s gaze. A few thousand men had peeled off from the bulk of Stannis host and had gathered behind the trenches. As Tyrion watched the men pulled a dozen odd pieces of metal. They seemed vaguely cylindrical and varied greatly in length and breadth. _Some kind of ram perhaps, but why of metal_?

 

From his place on the Mud Gate Tyrion continued to watch as the rams were placed into the trenches, barrels were rolled up after them along with canvas bags and wagon loads of what looked like dull grey stones. _Some kind of catapult mayhaps_ . As Tyrion watched he saw a rider with a cloak of gold flanked by two others with white cloaks approach the trenches. _Stannis_ . _Oh and he’s made his own Kingsguard how fascinating_.

 

Stannis spent some time speaking with his Onion Knight, the two of them gesturing towards King’s Landing a few times, before returning to the bulk of his host. A flash of yellow and orange caught his eye. He quickly looked at the front of the trenches where they were now shrouded in smoke, a low rumble like thunder echoed across the river.

 

Tyrion put the Myrish Eye down. “What in Seven Hells was that?”

 

Tyrion just barely saw something flew through the air faster than his eyes could follow disappearing behind the eastern tower that flanked the Mud Gate. Immediately after the walls shook like a fence someone had kicked.

 

Tyrion grabbed the crenellations to steady himself. “Fuck me! What the fu-”

 

He was cut off as more flames flashed on the southern bank, more thunder followed and then the world shook as the walls rattled like the toy blocks of a child. Tyrion fell to his knees trying not to piss himself in fear.

 

 _Of all the times for Varys to be wrong it had to be about this_.

 

When the shaking finally stopped Tyrion rose his head to see Ser Jacelyn Bywater approaching. “What in the Seven Hells was that?” The larger man roughly pulled Tyrion to his feet and whispered in his ear. “You said wildfire not whatever the hells that was!”

 

Tyrion pushed himself away from the ironhanded knight and whispered back. “I don’t know. Some kind of catapult I think.”

 

“What kind of catapult does this,” Ironhand pulled Tyrion off the gatehouse and into the eastern tower. He kept pushing Tyrion until he was damn near forcing him out of a window. From his position Tyrion could see the walls were pockmarked by craters and holes that had caused part of the parapet to collapse.

 

“Oh fuck me.” Tyrion glanced at Ser Jacelyn and then stared across the river. He shook his head. “I doubt this is going to bet much better. Have your men try and dig out whatever they’re throwing at us. I want to know what we’re dealing with.”

 

Without a reason to risk his neck on the walls Tyrion retreated to the safety of his chambers. Within  the comforts of the Red Keep Tyrion watched the rapid disintegration of the walls of King’s Landing. Ensconced within his solar in the Tower of the Hand Tyrion drank wine by the goblet as he listened to the destruction of King’s Landing.

 

By nightfall a wide breach had been made in the wall east of the Mud Gate, the rubble formed a wide fanning ramp leading into the city.

 

Ser Jacelyn came an hour after the thunder of Stannis’ weapons finally went silent, he was accompanied by pair of gold cloaks who together were carrying an iron ball the size of a man’s head.

 

His mind hazed by wine, Tyrion still managed to focus long enough to ask. “What’s this.”

 

Ironhand gave a perfunctory bow as the two gold cloaks put the ball on Tyrion’s desk with a loud thump. “Mi’lord Hand, you asked for what Lord Stannis was throwing at us,” he gestured at the ball.

 

Tyrion leaned forward to grasp the ball. “Uh that’s heavy.”

 

“About twenty pounds.”

 

“By the Seven Hells now wonder the walls are getting destroyed,” Tyrion shook his head and muttered. “How are they throwing these?”

 

Apparently Ironhand took this as an actual question. “They’re coming from the those metal rams Ser Davos put in the trenches.”

 

“Less like rams and more like dragons.” Tyrion muttered as he rubbed his temples. “Gods!” He sighed. “Gather as much debris as you can make a barricade behind the breach. Tear down houses if you have too we’ll need it as tall and wide as possible.” Tyrion looked out his window. “I have a feeling there’ll be more breaches before Stannis attacks.”

 

Ser Jacelyn Bywater nodded and bowed as he left. “Yes, mi’lord Hand.”

 

Tyrion drank deep into the night before falling into bed and Shae’s arms.

 

Wine pounding on his brain and iron balls pounding on the walls woke him at an ungodly hour in the morning. He struggled out of the tangle of sheets and limbs and staggered his way to the window. Stannis’ dragons were pounding the walls west of the Mud Gate now ripping out great chunks of stone and sending dust near fifty feet into the air. But that was not what piqued Tyrion’s interest, and his fears. There was the sound of shouting and steel from within King’s Landing.

 

“Pod!” Tyrion roared causing Shae to wake with a jump. Tyrion stomped his way out of his solar, “Pod!”

 

The boy in question stumbled his way through the door. “Y-yes mi’lord?”

 

“Get me dressed!”

 

“Wh-which doublet mi’lord?”

 

“Does it look like I give a fuck, just pick one! And get me some wine!”

 

Dressed and and refreshed Tyrion made his way out of Maegor’s Holdfast and into the Red Keep proper gathering red cloaks and clansmen as he went. He caught Lancel peeking out of the Royal Chambers guarded by Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Meryn Trant.

 

Tyrion turned swiftly and spoke to his cousin “Get in your armour and fetch the crown. The king needs to make an appearance. Meet me at the gatehouse.”

 

Without giving the false king and his kingsguard a chance to respond Tyrion continued his march to the gatehouse. Shagga and his band of Stone Crows met Tyrion at the gatehouse. “Where’s Ser Jacelyn?” He asked of a gold cloak sergeant.

 

“In the city m’lord putting down the riot.”

 

“Riot? Seven Hells another one? What sparked this one.”

 

“A septon in Flea Bottom. He claimed the gods were making the walls fall, that the Father had judged house Lannister, and that the Warrior himself had come to fight for Stannis. He said that all godly men should take arms and seize the city in the name of the true king.”

 

“Fuck! Shit! Godsdamn! Seven Hells!” Tyrion took a breath and, from the corner of his eye, saw Shagga nodding in approval at his stream of curses. “How big is the riot?”

 

“Not as large as the last one,” answered the gold cloak. “The worst of the troublemakers are either dead or in the dungeons already. Flea Bottom had been upended again but Ironhand is beating them down again.”

 

“And the septon?”

 

“Lost in the madness, mayhaps dead, mayhaps hiding.”

 

“Find him and put his head on a spike,” commanded Tyrion. He turned to one of his few remaining red cloaks. “Tell the High Septon to arrange some preaching in our favour.”

 

“Yes, m’lord,” the red cloak ran off to follow Tyrion’s command.

 

Within minutes Lancel, in his full royal regalia and flanked by the two remaining Kingsguard, joined Tyrion on the walls. The red cloaks formed ranks around them, ostensibly for protection, in truth to prevent anyone getting too close a look at Lancel.

 

“What’s happening,” asked the breathless false king.

 

“A septon raised Flea Bottom for Stannis, but they’ve been put down for the naught at least.”

 

“Is the septon dead?”

 

“Either that or in hiding so long as he stops his preaching it doesn’t matter.”

 

Lancel nodded. “And what do you want me to do?”

 

“Be seen _nephew_ be seen. Let the gold cloaks see that their king is here and will be beside them when the fighting starts. Walk the walls of the Red Keep mayhaps venture onto the city walls if Stannis’ bombardment eases. But remember-”

 

“Yes. Yes. crown and helmet on at all times. I’m not stupid _uncle_.”

 

“Forgive me for being cautious. Go, I have work to do and I don’t need your honour guard hanging over my shoulders.”

 

Lancel snorted but left with his kingsguard and red cloaks, leaving Tyrion alone with his clansmen.

 

The next two days passed in a blur as Tyrion struggled to keep the city in line. A dozen gold cloaks had been killed in the riot, but the effect on morale was even worse. Ser Jacelyn reported that men were openly talking about how the gods had cursed House Lannister. Those men whose muttering grew to loud were hanged from the walls of the Red Keep. But it didn’t stop the muttering among the gold cloaks. And despite Ironhand’s efforts the septon had not been caught. And in the ruins of Flea Bottom and the nearby districts rebellious smallfolk still lurked in the shadows. Half a dozen more gold cloaks were killed in the night, they were found in alleys with slit throats and their own balls shoved in the wounds.

 

On the other hand at least work on the barricades went well, the gold cloaks used rubble from the walls and from the buildings of Flea Bottom, a punishment for their rebellion, a broad arc of palisade was formed around the breach, and once it was made, the second breach as well. Crossbows, and spears and rocks for throwing were readied to rain hell on anyone who entered the breaches or assaulted the walls.

 

Tyrion developed a habit of flinching whenever he heard the thunder from across the Blackwater. All too often the thunder was followed by the crash of collapsing stonework as walls and towers that had stood for centuries fell in hours. Three days of endless bombardment did much to devastate the walls of King’s Landing. And in the early morning mists five days after the dragons first roared the bells of the Red Keep tolled as a vast fleet was sighted at sea.

 

Hurriedly armoured Tyrion gathered his clansmen and red cloaks behind the Mud Gate in Fishmonger’s Square. Lancel was there already mounted and flanked by the kingsguard, while fully armoured even Tyrion couldn’t tell that Lancel wasn’t Joffrey. From there the last Lannisters in King’s Landing moved atop the Mud Gate itself flanked by destroyed towers and a pair of breaches as it was the gate was still a formidable defence and would form the keystone of their attempt to bleed Stannis dry.

 

From there they watched their own small fleet assemble against Stannis’ vast horde of ships. The center of their line was made of smaller and older galleys, and barges, including Cersei’s rarely used gilt and marble monstrosity, which had been loaded with wildfire. To distract the Stannis’ new weapons Tyrion had the larger and more dangerous galleys form up closest to them. All the better to present an exciting target. With the weapons focusing on the galleys the barges could sail into Stannis’ fleet and burn it.

 

Tyrion gripped the ramparts in nervous anticipation.

 

Davos

 

Davos arrived three days before the bulk of King Stannis’ army in company with the rest of the van. Accompanied by only a small guard of dragonmen and _Beikango_ under his direct command, Davos set out to prepare the ground for the arrival of the dragons.

 

Despite his lofty title of Lord Commander of Dragons it was truly the red haired _Beikango_ , Ichiro, who did most of the work. On the first day Davos and Ichiro had paced up and down the southern bank of the Blackwater. Stopping every few dozen feet to peer through their glass eyes and examine the city walls. Ichiro peppered Davos with questions in his poorly accented Common Tongue about King’s Landing, the outline of the city streets, the thickness and height of the walls, and where the barracks of the garrison were in the city.

 

“What way is close to the castle?” The foreigner asked after nearly an hour of such questions.

 

Davos paused a moment to puzzle the meaning behind the words. “Behind the Mud Gate is a road called the Hook which leads to the Red Keep.”

 

“Good. Good. Make breach there.” Ichiro pointed at the wall just west of the Mud Gate. The foreigner stepped down to the river bank then took a score of long paces up the slope and jumped up and down. “Put _tahio_ here. The dragons here.”

 

Davos joined the strange man. “We’ll dig trenches to ward against the trebuchets.” Since their arrival the Lannisters had been launching errant stones from great trebuchets behind the Mud Gate.

 

With a plan in place Davos quickly gathered his commanders, mostly knights raised from low birth or the third sons of third sons. Men who had no authority to their name but what King Stannis granted them.

 

Together with Ichiro, his commanders, and a dozen other _Beikango_ , Davos marked out the length and width of the trenches, and the position of the dragons. Once complete men of the van were brought in to work on the digging the series of deep trenches and slots guarded with piled earth and wooden palisades. Not long after the work began in earnest stones of the trebuchets began to fall on his men. But the stones were few and they fell with no accuracy so long as one was cautious and kept their eyes open they could do little harm.

 

Three days of work put together a formidable assembly of trenches and palisades to greet whatever the Lannisters had to throw at them. The first elements of King Stannis’ great host arrived early in the afternoon of the third day since Davos’ arrival. Like a vast serpent the greater part of thirty thousand men slowly gathered themselves on the Blackwater ready to strike at King Stannis’ command. The dragonmen encamped themselves not far from the trenchworks that now spanned a hundred yards east and west along the Blackwater aiding in the finishing touches of the trenches, while the dragons themselves were dragged into place.

 

The King came to Davos’ late in the afternoon riding towards the dragonmen flanked by his small Kingsguard. “Lord Seaworth. I see you have been busy.”

 

Davos bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

 

“When will you be able to begin firing?”

 

“As soon as the dragons are in place. Are we attacking immediately?”

 

“No,” answered the king. “Not until Ser Imry and the fleet arrive. Storms and foul winds delayed the them in Blackwater Bay, but they should be here in a few days at most.” Stannis directed his attention to the city. “In the meantime I want the dragons to make as many breaches as possible for the assault.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace. Master Ichiro says that the walls are poorly prepared to defend against dragonfire and that it will take a few hours at most to make a breach in the walls and another few more for the breach to be properly prepared for an assault.”

 

King Stannis nodded. “I’ll trust in his experience and your good judgement. Where will you breach first?”

 

“East and west of the Mud Gate, where the Lannisters have been kind enough to clear the ground for us. After the wall are breached I aim to ruin the towers as much as possible to stop the garrison from raining arrows upon us.”

 

Stannis nodded again. “Continue your business then my lord.”

 

Davos nodded. “Yes, Your Grace,” he turned to his men. “Alright lads let’s get to business.”

 

The men knew their work and went about it quickly pushing and dragging the great bronze and iron tubes into place where they would be guarded from the stone’s of the trebuchets. The better part of an hour later the dragons were in place and loaded.

 

Davos watched a small black speck rise from behind the walls of King’s Landing. It flew higher and higher and slowly grew larger and larger. The speck, the stone, began to quickly grow in size as it began it’s descent. The stone crashed into the shallows of the Blackwater, bounced up and up the bank hitting the palisade with a dull thump doing no damage at all. He turned to his captains and gave his command. “Fire.” The dragons roared fire and smoke towards King’s Landing.

 

Davos’ view of impact of the dragonfire was quickly obscured by the clouds of dust. When the clouds cleared he could see that a small part of the wall had collapsed bringing down a piece of the parapet with it. Without ceremony the dragonmen began to reload.

 

Davos stared at the walls and whispered to himself. “Gods. All this after just one volley.”

 

As Ichiro had predicted the first breach was made before nightfall. It created a narrow canyon in the walls and Davos watched with fascination as the dragonfire continued throw up great gouts of stone and dust as that the efforts of the dragonmen and their _Beikango_ advisors gradually widened and deepened the breach until it was suitable for a ground assault.

 

At dawn the barrage began again, this time striking a section of wall just east of the Mud Gate. Three hours of dragonfire and another breach was made followed by again widening and deepening it. That took the rest of the second day.

 

As the third day dawned the dragons turned their attention to the towers which flanked the Mud Gate. The pair of towers lasted longer than the walls, their round faces sometimes deflecting the dragonfire, but inevitably they fell as well. The towers collapsed on themselves turning from bastions of the defence into massive ramps that would give the attackers a clear path onto the walls.

 

During the fourth day the dragons made their way up the walls toward the Red Keep. With these towers Davos was content to merely damage the towers instead of fully collapsing them. The harder things were for the Lannisters the happier Davos was.

 

On the morn of the fifth day Davos first heard bells toll from the Red Keep, minutes later the bells were followed by war horns and trumpets from the camp arrayed on the southern bank of the Blackwater. The great fleet of King Stannis arrived.

 

Ser Imry’s fleet appeared out of the morning mist in ten lines of twenty ships. The great galleys were moving slowly relying on their sails and letting the rowers rest for when the calls of “battle speed” came.

 

To the west was the enemy fleet the absence of _King Robert’s Hammer_ raised an eyebrow from Davos. Without that great galley of four hundred oars the three hundred oar _Fury_ would be unmatched in the battle.

 

Davos watched the vastly outnumbered enemy fleet ride the Blackwater Rush to meet King Stannis’ Royal Fleet, which, led by _Fury_ , was now entering the river. The enemy formation was becoming clearer now, their larger ships were taking position on the right flank where they would be closest to Davos and the dragons, while the smaller and more fragile galleys and cogs and even barges were in the middle or left of the formation.

 

Davos was about to command the dragons to fire upon the larger and closer galleys when he heard something behind him and turned to see the king watching the fleets and grinding his teeth.

 

Davos gave a quick bow. “Your Grace.”

 

“My lord,” Stannis responded then continued to grind his teeth. The king turned his head westwards and Davos followed his gaze into the midst of the host crowded on the banks of the Blackwater awaiting the ships that would carry them to battle. Amidst the host, standing next to a large bonfire was Melisandre the Red Woman. It was on her that King Stannis’ gaze had settled.

 

As if she had sensed their twin stare she turned to stare back at them. Davos turned away returning his focus to the river and the two fleets, though King Stannis continued to stare at the priestess of R’hllor.

 

Without turning to face him Stannis said. “Ignore the enemy galleys shoot Cersei’s pleasure barge.”

 

“Your Grace?”

 

“You have your command my lord see it done.”

 

Davos bowed his head in submission. “Yes, Your Grace.”

 

“Come to me when Lord Captain Imry reaches the shore. I have a particular task for you.”

 

Stannis rode off to the rest of the host without a word. Davos shook his head, _madness to waste dragonfire on a pleasure barge_ . _What did the Red Woman say to the King_?

 

Davos approached one of his commanders, Ser Eddgar Mertyns who commanded three of the dragons, who looked expectantly at him. “What are the king’s commands mi’lord?”

 

Davos gritted his teeth as he searched the enemy swing their ships into position. There she was near the middle of the line a great marble and golds monstrosity that lumbered behind the faster galleys. “Shoot the barge,” he commanded at last. At Ser Eddgar’s questioning look Davos shrugged. “King Stannis commands and we obey.”

 

Ser Eddgar shook his head. “Aye mi’lord, I’ll see it done.”

 

After several painful minutes the three dragons roared. Davos was standing far enough that he could see clearly what happened. The barge was struck and mere seconds later another roar, this one louder and longer and more terrible than any dragon, filled the ears of all men by the Blackwater. As Queen Cersei’s pleasure barge was consumed by an explosion of green flames that left more than half of Joffrey’s fleet aflame.

 

Imry

 

Ser Imry Florent watched as the Boy’s Toys were consumed by green fire. He glanced at the dragons on the bank of the Blackwater, _I never thought I’d say this but…_ “Seven Blessings for Lord Seaworth,” he shouted. “For making our work so much easier.” A cheer rose from the decks of _Fury_.

 

 _And likely saving our lives_. He added privately.

 

“Back oars,” he commanded. “Let the wreckage pass.”

 

“Aye mi’lord,” answered Maric Seaworth the Oarmaster of _Fury_.

 

 _A good lad for all that he’s lowborn, but he know’s his business and does it well_.

 

To his Flagmaster, Ser Durran Wensington he commanded. “Order the fleet to do likewise, I don’t want so much as a spark on an oar.”

 

“Ay mi’lord.”

 

Flags were raised and drums were beat as the men of _Fury_ and all the rest of the Royal Fleet did as they were bid, pulling out of the mouth of the Blackwater Rush and into Blackwater Bay. Imry watched the burning mass of Joffrey’s ships flee from the flames without any order whatsoever. He saw _White Hart_ and _Prince Aemon_ tangle their oars while trying to escape ensuring only that they both caught fire. _Godsgrace_ fled north and rammed itself onto the shore, while _Horned Honour_ did the same but, either in desperation or intent, landed on the southern bank where it was quickly overrun by King Stannis’ troops.

 

As he waited for the spread of burning ships and green flame to pass Imry pulled out his Myrish Eye and took aim at the walls of King’s Landing. What he saw shocked him to his core. Two breaches and no less than a dozen broken towers where once had been some of the strongest fortifications in the Seven Kingdoms. Imry rested a hand on the dragon that knelt beside him on the forecastle of Fury. _If they can do that to the stone walls of a city what can they do to the wooden walls of a ship_?

 

At last the mass of burning ships and green flame began to exit the Blackwater Rush passing the Royal Fleet and being carried out into Blackwater Bay by the currents.

 

Ser Erren Claw, the boatmaster of _Fury_ , approached him. “Shall we put out boats?”

 

“For what?”

 

“The sailors, mi’lord.”

 

The thought had not crossed Imry’s mind until now. “No,” he answered turning to look at the burning remnants of the Boy’s Toys. “I shan't risk the lives of my men to save traitors. Let the gods decide their fate.” He returned his focus to Maric Seaworth and Durran Wensington. “Beat to quarters, we’ll stop at the southern bank first to take on the troops then turn, as one, and hit King’s Landing with everything we’ve got.” He put a hand on the great bronze dragon on the deck beside him. “And see how the Lannisters like fire of our own.”

 

“Aye, mi’lord,” answered the two men. The _boom boom boom_ of the drumbeats from the lower decks echoed through the boards like a great heart beat making _Fury_ seem alive. Imry let a foxish grin play over his face as he watched the Boy’s Toys, outnumbered and demoralized by wildfire, flee upriver rather than face the Royal Fleet in battle.

 

Warships flooded the Blackwater and made their way to the southern bank. Imry stretched his neck as he tried to pick out King Stannis from the mass of men. There! Nearby the Red Woman who was preaching at one of her great bonfires as she always did. Though Selyse had converted Imry personally didn’t see the appeal in her Red Faith, with all it’s talk of darkness and cold and burning the heathen. Still it seemed to have brought his sister some measure of peace that the Seven had never managed.

 

 _Fury_ was brought alongside the bank and quickly had it’s boats loosed to gather soldiers for the assault. Imry gave a polite bow to his uncle Lord Alester and goodbrother King Stannis, both of whom were waiting higher on the bank speaking with various commanders, amongst them several of Imry’s cousins from various houses and the Onion Lord. If they saw him they gave no sign.

 

The boats brought back more than just the men-at-arms Imry had expected, in addition to Ser Bonnifer Hasty’s Holy Hundred there came several hundred of the dragonmen commanded by Ser Justin Massey and the newly minted brute of a knight Ser Aemon Thunder.

 

The two made quite a pair Ser Justin ever smiling and always talking and Ser Aemon perpetually glowering and silent. The smiling knight greeted Imry with a grin and a note. “From the king,” he said.

 

“My thanks Ser,” Imry took the note and quickly read it. He nodded. “Take your positions on the main deck Sers.” To Maric Seaworth he added. “Up to speed! Make haste for the eastern breach!”

 

“Aye mi’lord!” Answered the oarmaster.

 

Again the drums made _Fury_ come alive with the promise of violence.

 

“Master Hiro,” called Imry summoning the attention of the foreign sellsword. “Ready the dragons with grapeshot.”

 

The foreigner gave one of the low bows typical of his people and went to work with his aids. The four dragons on the forecastle of _Fury_ were loaded and ready by the time _Fury_ was half way across the Blackwater.

 

The Royal Fleet, now loaded down by thousands of armed and armoured men, as it turned away from the southern bank and headed towards the ruined walls King’s Landing. Imry smiled again as he watched as the walls and the breach slowly grew larger and larger.

 

 _Fury_ ran itself onto the northern bank of the Blackwater only fifty yards from the breach. The remaining lengths of wall were crowded  with gold cloaks who let loose with crossbows and spitfires from the walls.

 

“Keep their heads down!” Imry shouted over the growing din of battle. “Dragons and ballista aim for the walls!”

 

The ballista which lined the top deck of _Fury_ let loose sending yard long bolts flying into the enemy. Imry saw a man fly back after being struck in the chest. But the ballistas paled in comparison to the dragons. The dragons moved into their proper positions with terrible slowness. five men were needed to push and shove their great bronze bulk into place.

 

As slowly as that was what happened next took place with incredible speed and violence. With the touch of a smoking brand the dragons roared and turned to gold cloaks lined atop the walls into nothing more than chunks of meat and metal.

 

After that the gold cloaks seemed rather more circumspect about where they put their heads. With a roar the Holy Hundred began their charge into the breach carrying the boats of _Fury_ above their heads as makeshift mantlets. They were followed by Ser Justin’s and Ser Aemon’s dragonmen who took shelter behind their more heavily armed compatriots.

 

Imry drew his own sword and marched down to the deck and boarded a boat of his own. “Seaworth! You have the ship,” he called to the young oarmaster.

 

Imry took a spot at the bow of the boat as his men rowed ashore. He took part with them as they flipped the boat and raised to over. Protection against the arrows and bolts that still flew from the city walls. Imry and the crew of sweating and grunting men pushed forward, stumbling and climbing over the rubble and into the breach.

 

At the crest of the breach Imry’s men threw down the boat and rushed down the slope, while Imry himself remained on the crest, to better command the assault of course.

 

“Damn them,” he said as he surveyed the field. The Lannisters had turned the breach into a killing field with a ten foot high barricade of stone and wood creating a courtyard that was being rapidly filled with the living and dead of the Royal Host. The dragonmen had remained on the slopes of the breach and were now letting fire against the enemy picking them off one by one.

 

From the flanks of the breach gold cloaks on the walls were throwing spears and stones against the struggling mass. Imry gritted his teeth and took hold of a knight of House Errol by the arm.

 

“Start scaling the towers! Bring up the ladders we need men on the walls!”

 

The knight nodded and ran back out to the ships. Within what seemed to be moments the second wave of attackers was running into the breach and climbing up the rough ramps formed from the collapsed towers. Ladders, originally brought to scale the walls, were instead turned against the barricades inside the city. The dragonmen continued to reap a dreadful harvest from the gold cloaks atop the barricade. The walls above the breach were now filled with grunting and shoving gold cloaks and attackers, and the gold cloaks, little more than a pretentious city watch at the best of times, were falling back in the face of King Stannis’ better trained and better armed knights.

 

 _Victory is all but inevitable but until more ladders came forward it’s a stalemate_.

 

Or so Imry thought before with a sudden roar the Fishmonger’s Square was filled with a screaming mob of rag wearing smallfolk who fell upon the the gold cloaks manning the barricades leading to a quick disintegration of the defences.

 

Imry sat for a moment before slowly standing up and stretching. “Well then,” he said to no one in particular. “That’s that then.”

 

The Royal Host poured over the barricades slaughtering the fleeing gold cloaks.

 

Tyrion

 

“Fuck!” Tyrion swung his axe into a Fossoway’s groin. As he struggled to pull the weapon free he was bowled over by a hulking Buckler man who pushed Tyrion to the ground.

 

Tyrion tried to grapple with the large man but he was quickly overwhelmed. The Stormlander drew a dagger, whether he meant to kill Tyrion or force his surrender he would never know, for one of Shagga’s axes split the man's helmet and head in two. The wildling pulled Tyrion off his feet and hugged him to his chest as he pulled them both out of the chaos of the melee. They were joined by a dozen clansmen, as many red cloaks, Lancel, and the two Kingsguard. An island of order in a sea of chaos atop the Mud Gate.

 

Stannis’ men had poured out of their ships and stormed over the cleared ground beneath the walls and carried into the breaches and up the walls like a great wave. The barricades were holding, for now, but they’d collapse soon as the shear weight of Stannis’ host overwhelmed the gold cloaks. Another series of cracks echoed out of the breach, the result of some strange weapon somewhere between a club and a crossbow, mayhaps a miniature of what had made the breach in the first place.

 

At least those monsters across the Blackwater and on board the ships had gone silent for fear of hitting their own men most like. A pity they hadn’t done that before destroying the Royal Fleet. How in the Seven Hells had Stannis known to strike the barges first?

 

Tyrion shook his head it didn’t matter now the battle was lost even if the gold cloaks didn’t know it yet. But soon they’d crumble and when they did King’s Landing would fall. 

 

“ _ Nephew _ you stay here and keep the fight in the gold cloaks for a few minutes more. I’ll gather the red cloaks and meet you in the square. From there we return to the Red Keep and convince Stannis not to kill us all when we surrender.”

 

Whatever Lancel was going to say in reply was drowned out by a great roar from within the city. A horde of smallfolk were pouring out of the alleys and streets around Fishmonger’s Square and falling onto the rear ranks of the gold cloaks with a fury only hate could bring to bear.

 

Tyrion’s mouth gaped in shock then curled into a snarl. “That godsdamned septon. Forget everything I just said we’re leaving now!”

 

Their party, headed by Shagga, pushed through the faltering gold cloaks and into the inner stairwell of the Mud Gate. By the time they exited into Fishmonger’s Square everything had gone to hell. The barricades were abandoned and the fleeing gold cloaks were being hounded through the city by Stannis’ knights and the howling horde of Flea Bottom. The red cloaks, good men loyal to House Lannister, formed ranks around Tyrion and Lancel, while the clansmen formed their own looser band nearby.

 

Together the two groups cut their way through screaming smallfolk and isolated bands of southrons, avoiding the larger or more disciplined bands. The farther from the Mud Gate they went the easier their journey became as Stannis’ men became bogged down looting the shops and houses of the Street of Steel, Muddy Way, River Row, and the Hook. Most of them at least for here and there bands of southrons moving with purpose towards towers, barracks, gates, the Street of Steel, and the Red Keep.

 

“Quickly,” Tyrion roared. “Before they cut us off.”

 

With Shagga in the lead they charged out of Fishmonger’s Square and up the Muddy Way, before turning onto the Hook, which would lead them to the Red Keep.

 

Despite their hurry a band of men armed with those new weapons Tyrion had seen in the breach came erupted from an alley, at their head was the Onion Knight. Without wasting a moment Shagga roared and charged the enemy with an axe in each hand. A sharp crack and a plume of fire and smoke later and Shagga was lying on the ground with a massive hole in his back.

 

The other clansmen and the red cloaks, and Tyrion himself for that matter, stopped still for a few crucial moments. The men of the Onion Knight’s company finished running out of the alley, forming a thin line across the Hook.

 

“Joffrey Waters. Lord Tyrion,” called the Onion Knight. “In the name of King Stannis I ask for your surrender, by my honour and King Stannis’ you will be treated as due to your station.”

 

As one the the first rank of the line knelt and aimed their weapons at Tyrion’s band, the second rank aimed over the heads of their companions.

 

Of all of them it was Lancel who acted first throwing down his sword and his helmet while announcing. “I will not die for Joffrey.”

 

Unarmed, Tyrion’s young cousin strode towards the enemy line. The red cloaks looked towards each other and then to Tyrion. He shrugged. “You heard him.” He dropped his axe and walked to join Lancel. As he passed Shagga he stopped for a moment and knelt to pay his respects to the dead clanman. Up close the wound looked even more horrific Shagga’s back was a mass of blood, broken bones, and shattered mail.

 

Tyrion heard a clatter of steel on stone as the rest of the red cloaks and clansmen dropped their weapons in surrender leaving only Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Meryn Trant. The line of soldier parted to allow Ser Davos’ new prisoners to pass through.

 

Tyrion nodded to the Onion Knight. “Ser Davos.”

 

The lowborn knight’s face reddened. “It’s lord now, actually.” The Lord of Onions turned and spoke to the Kingsguard. “Will you not surrender Sers?”

 

Sers Meryn and Preston looked at each other in silence until Ser Meryn stepped forward. “We have you word Ser Davos, that we will not be mistreated?”

 

“Mine and King Stannis’.”

 

It was Ser Preston who moved first dropping his sword, and tearing off his gauntlets. Ser Meryn followed suit only a few second later.

 

With that done  _ Lord  _ Davos turned to Tyrion. “Where is Joffrey?”

 

Tyrion replied with a grin. “By now? Goldengrove for certain, possibly even Highgarden.”

 


	6. Chapter 6 (Brynden, Dacey, Mathis)

The Blackfish

Day and night for three weeks Ser Brynden and his outriders did battle with their Lannister counterparts commanded by the mad dog Ser Gregor Clegane and the goat Vargo Hoat. Though Brynden sensed a more intelligent mind behind to movements of the two brutes. In those weeks there were no great battles. No glorious charges of shining knights. No great formations of infantry and archers. It was day after day of endless ambush and counter-ambush, raid and counter-raid, skirmishes of all sorts. It was exhausting Brynden's outriders were dropping from exhaustion and the Lannisters were near as badly strained. Brynden had never felt more alive. This was what he lived for, fighting where guile and speed counted just as much as raw strength and numbers.

The Lannister host fled south, out of the Riverlands and towards the Reach, and Robb's army followed, with Brynden leading them. They chased the lions through the forests and fields and rivers of the southern Riverlands, the domains of Vance, Piper, Smallwood, and Bracken. They liberated Stoney Sept from the rule of Lord Beric Dondarrion, who had turned bandit and attacked Lannister and Stark men alike as they foraged. King Robb left five hundred men under Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island to garrison the town after it was fruitfully foraged by Brynden and the Greatjon at their king's command.

From Stoney Sept they continued south over the hills and far away from the Riverlands. They crossed the upper reaches of the Blackwater and swept through the last lands that knelt to Riverrun and into the Reach where the fires of war had not yet touched the land. Brynden took a savage pleasure in fanning the flames of war far and wide throughout the Reach. His outriders burned houses and fields and sent hundreds of cattle, sheep, and goats into the cookpots and stomachs of the army. While thousands more were sent north to feed ravaged the Riverlands.

The thousand hills and little rivers of the Riverlands gave way to the broad stretches of flat land that gave the Reach it's name. It seemed that farms and villages formed a never ending patchwork that reached far beyond the horizon. With the lack of larger forests and hills and hidden places to launch ambushes the endless skirmish between Brynden and his counterparts entered a new phase. The bands grew larger from several dozen to several hundred and the skirmishes between them grew more intense as the Lannisters put up a guard of men and steel to guard their rear and Brynden put all his efforts into breaking the cordon. Despite his efforts the Lannister guards were more attentive than those at Riverrun or at Oxcross and Brynden's men were unable to get a grip on the bulk of the Lannister host.

Where two bands or outriders met the clash would attract other outriders like flies to a corpse, until there would be a thousand, sometimes thousands of men, wheeling and riding and fighting in the fading heat of Summer.

In the aftermath of one of these _little battles_ , as the men were calling them, Brynden washed the blood from his sword with a stained rag, they had won this battle, or at least it seemed they had, the Lannisters, led by the Mountain, had fled the field when three hundred men under Lord Rickard Karstark had arrived. But they had fled in good order, and despite the Lord of Karhold's demands that the Lannisters be followed and slaughtered, Brynden let his men stay behind to rest and take some well deserved loot.

"Ser," one of his riders said. "I think you should look at this."

With a groan Brynden rose from his sore arse to stand on his sore knees, he limped a few steps till the muscles in his legs were properly stretched and loosened. "Aye. What is it?"

The rider nudged a dead man with his foot. "These aren't Lannister colours."

The man in question wore a surcoat which, prior to getting covered in all his life's blood, bore golden cranes on pale blue. _The banners of House Crane_ , _sworn to the Tyrells_. _Fuck_. He shook his head. "Go round and gather one of every banner or surcoat you don't recognize and bring them back to camp."

"Aye Ser."

The light was fading with the setting sun as Brynden returned to the camp. He nodded as he passed by Smalljon Umber and Ser Ryam Frey, who would command the scouts for the night, leading their riders out of the camp. Robb had put tonight's camp atop a small plateau that might as well have been a mountain compared to the surrounding lands. Without ceremony Brynden made his way straight through the camp passing by the tents and fires of men exhausted by three weeks of battle and forced marches, by long days and short nights. Most seemed to have already stripped themselves of their armour and gone to sleep. Brynden dismounted and led his horse to where his own tent was set. He unbuckled the saddle and with a grunt he pulled the saddle off the black beast. He set out feed and water for the horse and then moved on to meet the king and his court. Collecting the sack filled with enemy banners as he walked toward the royal pavilion.

The pavilion was quiet, save for the eternal arguing of lords and knights, there was no feasting in the king's presence. Robb demanded that he eat only what his men ate and he expected the same of his lords, in his own presence at the very least. In place of wine and roasting pig on a spit, there was bread, salted meat, and maps. So many maps. Maps of the North, the Riverlands, the Westerlands, the Crownlands, and the Reach. With ink and chalk and wooden pieces Robb marked out the locations of his enemies. Brynden made his place to his king's right side opposite the Greatjon on Robb's left. The others were arrayed in a broad arc of tables and chairs and stools, illuminated by the fire pit in the center and a plethora of candles on the tables.

"Your Grace, forgive my lateness."

Robb stood and pulled Brynden's chair out. "There is nothing to forgive uncle," he waited for Brynden to seat and then seated himself. "What news do you bring for today?"

He tossed the sack onto the table. "Reachmen. Let's see," he began to pull out bloodied surcoats and dirtied banners. "Crane, Merryweather, Blackbar, Osgrey, Rowan. And half a dozen more lesser houses. No Tyrells though nor Florents or Hightowers."

Silence reigned in King Robb's pavilion it was broken by Greatjon Umber. "What of it," the Lord of Last Hearth boasted. "So a few more flowery fools came to the slaughter. It only means more spoils for us to share!"

A thumping of fists on tables and hoarse shouts greeted the Greatjon as the northern lords announced their agreement. But Brynden noticed that some of the lords present seemed more hesitant. Particularly the Freys. _But what else can one expect from the spawn of the Late Lord Walder_.

"Quiet!" Commanded the king. "Do you know how many men have joined Tywin?"

Brynden shook his head. "I can't say for sure. There are more Lannister outriders than there are flowers in Highgarden. I haven't been able to get close enough for a good look." He sighed. "That being said each of these houses could gather a couple thousands men each at the best of times."

"But these are hardly the best of times," said Lord Blackwood. "The Reach has lost men at Storm's End and at Bitterbridge. These are likely the dregs of the Reach, farmers and herdsmen, not proper warriors."

"Aye!" Shouted the northerners the Greatjon loudest of them all.

"One northerner is worth ten southrons!" The giant Lord of Last Hearth boasted.

"Aye!"

"The Young Wolf will send these lions and flowers running for the hills!" The Greatjon raised a drinking horn to salute Robb before downing it.

"Aye!"

_These are men used to the taste of victory_. He frowned silently, _perhaps to used to it's taste_.

Robb was still silent eyeing his maps, tracing the lines of rivers and forests, looking for avenues of attack or defence.

Brynden forced down an urge to shout down these lords and call them all fools. To do so would embarrass Robb and wound his pride. And what was a king without his pride? Rather than speak he settled for looking as grumpy as could be as he watched to council of war devolve into an endless series of toasts and boasts,

"My lords." Robb broke his silence at last. "My lords! We must not be overconfident lest we blind ourselves to the truth." To Lord Blackwood he said. "Mayhaps you're right my lord mayhaps there are only a few thousand more shepherds for us to shear." A chuckle rose at that. Robb turned to face the Greatjon. "Or mayhaps there are ten thousand more men-at-arms awaiting us. In any case we cannot wait to be attacked we must either strike hard and fast as we did at the Whispering Wood, at Riverrun, or at Oxcross. Or else we must retreat and lure Lord Tywin into a trap where his greater numbers will mean nothing."

"Aye, Your Grace," echoed the lords, Brynden among them.

"But that decision cannot be made in haste or in ignorance, it must wait for the light of day. Go my lords and take your rest for tomorrow we will be a long day." The lords rose as one bowing and paying their respects. Brynden rose to join them but felt a hand on his arm. "Uncle stay awhile."

Brynden looked down at his niece's son. He nodded. "As you will, Your Grace."

Once they were alone Robb took crown from head and placed it on the table. "How many men do you think Lord Tywin has?"

"He had near twenty thousand when he left Harrenhal. Less than that now but still more than us. Not much more grant you, but… even a few hundred men can make a difference. If their in the right place."

"And the Reachmen? How many of them?"

"I don't know, five thousand at leat?" He shrugged. "More or less I cannot say. But I know for sure that the men I fought today weren't farmers or shepherds. They were knights and sworn swords trained with horse and lance and sword."

Robb nodded. "And they'll be fresh and eager to fight." He shook his head. "The Greatjon would urge me to attack."

"The Greatjon thinks with his balls not his brain. He'd urge you to attack Casterly Rock with a herd of pigs. Better to ignore him when it comes to strategy."

"What would you do?"

"A raid. Take the cavalry and break through Tywin's outriders, find out how many men he has. Then pull back and discuss further. If the numbers a equal enough fight a battle if not retreat to better ground."

"You make it sound simple."

"Fighting a war is simple, winning one is hard."

Robb was silent for a long time afterwards his gaze slid across the map seeking out and flickering between two points. Storm's End and King's Landing.

"You worry about what your mother said about Stannis."

"...Yes," Robb admitted. He has taken King's Landing. His army is larger than mine and near as large as Tywin's. And these new weapons, these..." He shook his head. "Dragons. They frighten me. What they can do, what Stannis will use them for." Robb clutched his head. "I feel as if I'm being torn in three. I must defeat the Lannisters. I must fight Stannis. I must drive Theon and his Ironmen from Winterfell. But I don't have enough men to do it all." Unbidden tears welled at Robb's eyes.

Brynden took a hold of his great-nephew. "Be still those tears lad, you're worse than your mother. Look not to the future, fight one battle at a time. Defeat the Lannisters here and let them and Stannis bleed each other. Go north, kill Greyjoy, and line the western coast with Ironscum heads. Force Stannis or Tywin or whoever wins in the south to accept your crown."

Robb shuddered as he forced his tear back down. "Thank you uncle. I'll send a messenger at dawn. I'll do as you said a raid to see what Tywin has then make a battle plan. Go now. You'll need to be rested tomorrow."

Brynden chuckled. "As Your Grace commands," as he left he gave a low and only slightly mocking bow. He made his way to his tent, walking through the silent camp. _In all the camps I've seen in all these years this has got to be the quietest_. Instead of feasting and raucous drinking there was only sleeping men and low burning fires. _Not that I blame them a month of hard riding and hard fighting would exhaust anyone_. Brynden's squire released him of his armour allowing the old night to crawl into his tent and and let sleep take him moments later.

It seem that it was only moments later that Brynden was startled awake as horns and trumpets filled the air.

He crawled out of the tent. "What the fuck is happening?" He kicked his squire awake. "Get my armour on!" Brynden eschewed his plate armour in favour of the faster to don mail coat and quickly made his way to Robb's pavilion. He pushed his way into the tent past a small horde of startled messengers, half a dozen lordlings, and ruffled looking Grey Wind.

"Your Grace!" He cried upon sighting Cat's son, patting the direwolf on his massive head. "What is this?"

"Lord Tywin has stolen a march on us."

Robb's harried voice carried a note of concern Brynden hadn't heard before. "How many of them?" He asked, putting his hand on the table.

"Ser Ryam has not returned, but the scouts are saying every number between ten thousand and a hundred thousand."

"And the Smalljon?"

"There's been no word. I've sent messengers to rally the host on the southern side of the camp. But some of them aren't getting through I think there's raiders in the camp," he shook his head. "Everything is so confused I've no idea where the fighting is happening."

"Damn. Have you-"

Before Brynden could finish his question an arrow pinned his right hand, his sword hand, to the table.

"GAH! FUCK! SEVEN FUCKS!" He broke the arrow and pulled his hand free. "Fuck the gods this hurts!" With care he drew his sword as the sounds of battle began to rage outside the pavilion. Once outside his attention was immediately drawn to the massive yellow surcoat and armoured bulk of the Mountain. _Of course Tywin would send him_.

The Mountain's men had the pavilion surrounded and Robb's beleaguered guards would not be able to hold out for long. Robb was already in the thick of it fighting, with Grey Wind at his side, as he always was. The Mountain, atop his equally immense horse, was pushing his way to the king.

_I'll not let you take him_. Brynden snarled and began his own drive toward the Mountain. But only a few yards from the pavilion an arrow sprouted from his throat, he saw the Mountain crash through a row of northmen and set upon the king and then all the Blackfish saw was darkness.

 

The She-Bear

"Protect the king!" Dacey shouted as she swung her mace around and brought it into the face of the screaming red cloak trying to pull her from the saddle. He fell bonelessly to the ground. "Protect the king!" She screamed again as her small band of Northmen and Rivermen fought against those who had attacked their king.

Everything had happened so suddenly, the silence of night transforming into the chaos of battle in only moments. Lord Tywin's men had wasted no time before storming the camp. Charging forward in a vast horde of foot and horse, giving the defenders only a few minutes of warning, as the survivors of the Smalljon's and Ser Ryam's command fled into the camp. There had been no proper battlelines to counter the enemy charge. And too much confusion for any kind of retaliation. The battle was now a confused melee where the tired, surprised, and often unarmoured men of the North and the Trident were getting the worst of it. Dacey knew not what was happening beyond her own band of a barely a hundred Mormont sworn swords. She knew only that a her king was likely in danger, and so she had gathered much the men of Bear Island, which she commanded in her mother's stead, and moved to protect him.

It was well that she had, for either by coincidence or design, near a hundred mounted men lead by the Mountain That Rides himself had cut through the lines, and surrounded the Royal Pavilion where they were engaged against the outnumbered royal guards. With a cheer Dacey had led her men into the the rear of the enemy.

Dacey turned her shield to block a spear thrust that would have gutted her, she countered with a swipe of her mace that broke the man's arm. A kick from her war horse, a great white beast named Weirwood, sent him sprawling. But before the could follow up with a killing blow another foe, this one with a black goat on his shield and a long braid of black hair, charged her with a queer curved sword. A Mormont man beside her countered with a spear thrust into his gut. She bashed another helmeted head in and squeezed hard with her legs as Weirwood reared to avoid a swing from a poleaxe. A great roar got her attention as the line to her left gave way. The Mountain cut a Mormont man clean in half with a single swing of his greatsword as his charge smashed through the Mormont line.

Dacey pulled back to gain room to turn Weirwood into position for a charge of her own. "For the Young Wolf!" She cried and put spurs to her horse leading her personal guard back into the fray. Rather than charge the Mountain himself she instead rode past him, and struck his horse in the head with her mace, swinging with all her strength. The shock of the blow sent shiver up her arm. She idly heard the Mountain cough and curse as his horse collapsed and a dozen blows were rained down upon him sounding like hammers on an anvil.

She pulled Weirwood around and gasped as the Mountain pulled a man off his horse and threw him ten feet into a second man, all the while cutting down the warriors of Bear Island with his greatsword. He was like some demon from the Seven Hells. On instinct she blocked the blow of a curved sword, being swung by a copper skinned man, a Dothraki, with a long braid flying behind him. He raised his sword for another blow, but Dacey was faster pushing Weirwood around the the Dothraki's side and swinging her mace into his unarmoured back, crushing his bow and his spine with one blow.

A roar returned her attention to the Mountain who, struggling with the weight of attackers, was wildly swinging his sword around screaming mindlessly as he did. Despite the efforts, and axes, of the her Bear Island men, and the Stark guardsmen, the Mountain seemed uninjured and undeterred, even as his own allies fled from Dacey's mounted charge to their rear. But even as she rounded on him the Mountain fell to his knees, the mad screams turning into choking gasps, and moments later silence as he dropped to the ground. Not willing to take chances a Mormont man rushed forward and put a dagger through the Mountains visor.

_The King_. "Where is the king?" Dacey asked of a Winterfell man.

"This way m'lady."

The man led her through the growing crowd of warriors, Stark, Mormont, Tully, Frey, Umber, Bracken, and the warriors of half a dozen more houses had gathered around the Royal Pavilion. The crowd parted as she advanced, and the sight caused her heart to skip a beat. A maester knelt over the king tending to a great cut high on the king's right arm, Grey Wind paced and whined nearby.

"Your Grace!" she cried and rushed over to his side. The Young Wolf did not respond. Dacey turned to the maester. "Is he..." She couldn't bring herself to finish the question.

But the maester answered it all the same. "His Grace yet lives, though he is gravely injured, both on his arm and," the maester pushed aside a scrap of King Robb's auburn hair. "His head. It's likely that he will not awaken for some hours yet, or mayhaps even days."

Dacey heard Black Walder Frey grumble behind her. "We don't have days, let alone hours." Then more loudly. "We should go take the king and flee before we and His Grace alike are in Lord Tywin's claws."

"Craven!" Bellowed the Greatjon, marching up to and towering over Black Walder and all the other Freys. "You'd let the lions steal a victory in the night after running away through half of the Seven Kingdoms!"

True to his name Black Walder did not back down from a challenge, instead he bristled with anger. "Listen around my lords this isn't a battle it's a disaster! The night is lost and I don't intend to let my king be lost with it!"

"Seven Hells Frey! The Mountain is dead along with his men, we're winning this battle!"

Whatever Black Walder roared back was overwhelmed by the cries and shouts of a dozen other lords. Some in support of Black Walder others for the Greatjon. All of them wasting time. _Blackhearted as he is Frey has the right of it_ , _we cannot win and we cannot stay_ , _the Mountain was only the first of many attackers_.

Without a word Dacey gathered up her king in her arms and pulled herself to her feet. She eyed the other lords, so busy arguing they hadn't noticed her. With aid she pushed King Robb atop a horse rode by Donnel, the best rider on Bear Island. Someone coughed behind her, she turned and saw Black Walder Frey, Galbart Glover, and Jonos Bracken.

"My lords," she peered over Lord Bracken's shoulder. "I take it the Greatjon and Lord Rickard have deigned not to join us."

Black Walder snorted. "One is a fool the other is maddened by a thirst for vengeance, but mayhaps they will buy us time."

Dacey watched the others nod in agreement, but found herself struggling to find the good in the deaths of her fellow Northerners, without a word she mounted Weirwood. "Then let us be off. We have no time to waste." She pulled herself atop Weirwood and rode for the northern edge of the camp. By the time they reached the border of the camp the cries of battle from the south masked the sound of their hoofbeats on the ground as they made it to the safety of the trees.

And from amongst the trees rose a chorus of horns and trumpets as the woods came alive with the enemy.

"Ambush!" she cried looking out towards where she had last seen the king.

Weirwood screamed as a sword cut through his foreleg. With the skill only a lifetime of training brought, Dacey leapt from the saddle, only narrowly avoiding Weirwood's kicking rear legs. She fell into a roll and rose to her feet in a single movement turning to face an enemy who likely thought her to be out of mind from the fall, and who as a result would be unready himself for her attack. Instead she found herself narrowly dodging a viper swift thrust aimed at calf where mail coat and armoured boot just didn't quite meet. She had yet to regain her balance before her opponent turned the thrust into and upward slash that caught her in the ribs. The impact hurt even through mail and padding but it wasn't threatening.

Dacey screamed as she took advantage of her opponent's own unbalanced state with a step and a full body swing of her mace aimed and his hip. She should have hit him, but the man nimbly backstepped bringing the tip of his sword around as he did to leave a cut along the bottom of her jaw, only inches from her throat. A tingle of fear shivered up Dacey's spine. As they both paused for a moment to regain their footing Dacey got her first good look at her opponent, he was dark haired, lean, and wolfish, he bore an ugly sword and was armoured in a coat of mail and boiled leather.

"Yield," he said, speaking for the first time.

Dacey drew herself to her full height and bashed her mace and shield together. "Here I Stand." The meaning of the words was lost on the southron who simply shrugged and moved to the attack. She blocked the first blow with her shield, barely managed to parry the second, but the third struck her in the waist, the point of his sword breaking the links of her mail as the tip pierced her side.

"Yield," he said again.

"Here I Stand."

Dacey struck first swinging her mace in a swift arc, feeling pain flare in her side. The lean man almost lazily leaned away, bringing his sword around to trap her mace, and plunging his dagger into her upper arm.

"Yield," he said again, twisting the dagger as he pushed it into her arm.

She grimaced in pain and spat in his face proclaiming. "Here I Stand." She tried to knee him in the crotch but only caught his hip as the lean man pulled away. Another swing of her mace, another miss. Dacey beat a thrust aside with her shield and pushed forward.

Dacey moved bring her shield low to cover her legs while holding her mace in a high guard. The lean man kept his sword low as he moved to her right, trying to get around her shield. Dacey sidestepped into his path and jumped forward to push him down with her shield, while swing her mace around and up from underneath to catch him in the belly. But the lean man twisted away to his right letting Dacey's shield and mace strike nothing but air, the, he did something with his feet sending Dacey to the ground with a crash. From the corner of her eye she saw his sword rising, she felt his knee on her back and his hand on her shoulders. _So this how it ends_ , she thought, but the gods had other plans.

With a curse the lean man jumped aside and for a moment the morning sky turned grey. Free of his boot and the threat of his steel Dacey rose to meet her rescuer and face her would be killer. Grey Wind growled at the lean man who faced the direwolf with a trepidation he had spurned for Dacey. She spat and moved from Grey Wind's side to flank the lean man. Most would think Grey Wind a simple beast, but Dacey had fought alongside the direwolf enough to know that he possessed a fierce kind of intellect in battle. As she had expected Grey Wind moved the opposite way forcing the lean man to split his focus.

Dacey let a growl rumble out of her chest as the lean man backed away from the wolf and the she-bear like the craven southron he was. Grey Wind lunged leaping over the space of grass in an instant, neatly dodging the panicked sword cut, and lunging at the lean man's leg. Only the be met with a dagger to the face as the lean man moved faster than Dacey had ever seen. Grey Wind yelped in pain and flinched back, taking the dagger with him.

Dacey, who was already moving, let loose a roar that would have made the bear of her house proud and charge the already turning man. She blocked a blow with her shield and countered with a overhand swing of her mace that met only air. A kick to her exposed knee sent her stumbling into a charging Grey Wind making the direwolf stumble and fall before the lean man. Quick as a shadowcat the man thrust his sword into Grey Wind's neck sending spurting blood high into the air. The lean man stepped away from the dying direwolf and calmly advanced upon Dacey, drawing another dagger as he did.

Dacey charged again shield up and mace at the ready. The lean man nimbly dodged the mace and made a strike of his own. but Dacey kicked his leg out from under him sending him to the ground. She kicked him again and swung her mace at his head. The lean man twisted at the last minute letting the mace thud harmlessly against the ground. Just as quick he swung a leg over Dacey's back a pulled her to the ground beside him. Dacey saw only a glint of morning sunlight on steel as his dagger buried itself in her eye and her brain.

 

Mathis

Mathis rode his war horse amidst the lines of over ten thousand infantry and three thousand mounted knights. The followed in the wake of the two thousand horse under Ser Gregor Clegane and Vargo Hoat, who had been sent to overrun the Stark outriders. From what Mathis had heard from his messengers and scouts it seemed that half the Stark outriders had run away, while the other half had charged into the fray and had been slaughtered. Jon Umber had been captured leading the mad charge. Clegane and Hoat had been so successful that they had outrun Mathis own force that would have hit the Starks only minutes after Cleganes riders, instead they were now near half and hour behind the Mountain.

"Damn Clegane," Mathis said to Ser Leo Blackbar. "The Mountain was supposed to wait for us after he smashed their outriders and then attack the camp just before us," he snorted. "Instead the madman just charged right in and has probably gotten half his command killed. At least half!"

"At least we still have the advantage of numbers," noted Ser Leo.

"Aye that we do and the advantage of not having chased Lord Tywin through half the Riverlands." Mathis gazed upon the sight of his men marching over the fields toward the Stark camp. "Our lads are rested and eager for blood."

Movement in the northern camp caught his eye. Mathis leaned forward in the saddle as he watched ranks of Northern and Riverlands troops march forth.

"Well I'll be damned they're coming to face us." His eyes scanned the banners. "Ser Leo, have my eyes failed me or are there to few banners.?"

"I was about to ask the same my lord. The giant of Umber, the Karstark starburst, the Blackwood tree, the Piper maiden, but not a sight of the Mormont bear, the Bracken horse, or the twin towers of Frey."

"Some dispute mayhaps?"

"Or is the Mountain more clever than we thought and is keeping the rest distracted as we speak."

"How many me do you reckon?"

Ser Leo squinted. "Eight thousand mayhaps ten, though there are more coming from the camp. So by the time we start to fight in earnest I think mayhaps ten or twelve thousand at least."

"I think the same, and with the advantage of the hill… They don't have much horse near their center. It seems that most of them are on the flanks," Mathis squinted again and then turned to his messengers. "Have Ser Marcus Meadows' and Lord Osgrey's pikemen form up on the flanks, with the crossbowmen in the center and swordsmen behind them our knights in reserve."

"Pelt them with bolts and pin them if they counter attack?" Asked Ser Leo.

"Exactly Ser, simple but effective when one has the advantage of numbers and time."

In the predawn gloom Mathis watched his commands come to fruition as his host of foot formed a broad line of swordsmen and crossbowmen, stoppered on both ends by great blocks of pikemen. In the east the sky gradually lightened but already the crows and ravens circled the field waiting for the coming feast.

Mathis raised his fist and swung it forward. "Advance!" He ordered, and the cry was taken up and down the line by trumpet and drum. Truly there was no sound as sweet as the barrage of stamping of hoof and foot, the beat of the drum, and the cry of the trumpet.

It seemed the enemy was eager for a fight as the centermost part of the line, which was lead the a banner bearing the giant of Umber, bulged outwards to flow down the hillslope to meet Mathis' own host. As his own crossbowmen began to loose their bolts, the enemy archers let loose with arrows of their own. Some of the enemy shafts found a home in Reachman flesh but most wasted themselves on the broad shields and strong armour of the infantry, or else on the great pavise shields of the crossbowmen.

Meanwhile the the more powerful bolts from the crossbows reaped a bloody harvest amongst the more poorly armoured Northmen and Riverlanders. Despite this the forces beneath the Umber banner pushed forward advancing down the hill into the hail of bolts and farther from their friends. In the east, on the left of the Stark line, a troop of cavalry beneath the Karstark starburst dashed off into the light of the rising sun, where Mathis could now see the gold and crimson banners of House Lannister being raised over a host of Westermen marching north, curving around the Stark camp. Mathis turned and saw the burning tree of Ser Addam Marbrand rising in the west over yet thousands more Westermen who mirrored their compatriots to the east in marching to surround the enemy camp. As he watched Ser Adam's knights detached from the infantry and began their own battle charge aimed at the far right of the Stark line.

Mathis grinned and turned to Ser Leo. "Let's see if they still have the stomach to fight when they have enemies on three sides."

As if from a prophecy Mathis saw the enemy's right, who marched under the Piper banners, begin to fall back into the camp leaving the Umber and Blackwood men exposed to Ser Addam's charge. The center of Mathis' host, commanded by Lord Arthur Ambrose, began to advance against the buckling Blackwoods and Umbers, the later of which were still advancing downhill even as the former began to pull back or turn to face the cavalry of the west. Ser Marcus and Lord Osgrey began to follow Lord Arthur's example and began advancing on the Northerners

Mathis turned to his trumpeters to give a belated order to his own mounted reserve. "Signal an advance."

From the safety of the reserve Mathis watched the battle quickly unravel in his, and Lord Tywin's, favour. A tide of Reachmen poured up the slope and smashed into the northern host, while a charge of mounted knights, led by Ser Addam Marbrand himself crushed the Blackwood's under their hooves sending the survivors fleeing into the camp. On the right Lord Karstarks mad charge against the Lannister might to the east ended in disaster opening the Stark left to a mounted charge to match their right. But the Stark center held, kept in place by the bellowing roars of the Greatjon. They formed a strong schiltron on the slopes beneath the camp, holding strong even as the men the the Reach and the West surrounded them and cut off all hope of retreat.

Mathis pushed his horse forward close enough to the front lines to be within shouting distance of the Greatjon. "My Lord Umber! My Lord Umber! Look around you. You're surrounded, you're outnumbered, you have no chance of victory, surrender now and spare you're men death."

The Greatjon seemed to grow even larger as he swelled with rage. "I'll not banter words with a southron pansy like yourself! LORD FLOWERS! I'LL CUT YOUR HEAD OFF AND SHIT DOWN YOUR NECK!"

_Call me a bastard will you_? Mathis drew his weapon from the sheath fixed to his saddle. "Well then," muttered Mathis. "Fuck you." Mathis brought the dragon to his shoulder and fired, sending a lead ball into Lord Umber's chest, splattering his lifesblood over half a dozen nearby men. "Does anyone else want to follow Lord Jon's example?" He only half jested to the northerners.

As it turned out they did not and they quickly surrendered to Mathis himself. Not much of a haul a score of minor lordlings and a thousand or so infantry, but their ransoms would help pay for dowries his daughters required at the very least. With the majority of the northern host dead or put to flight all that remained was to loot the camp and defeat any hold outs.

Mathis and Leo rode side by side through the enemy camp, accompanied only by their own guards. "I expected the Young Wolf to be a more difficult opponent," Mathis remarked to Ser Leo.

The knight jerked in surprise. "You haven't heard my lord?"

"Heard what?"

"Robb Stark was injured during Clegane's charge, his personal guard took him and fled the field."

"Was he captured?"

"I haven't heard anything, but I imagine if he had been we'd all know by now."

"Alas our victory is not so utterly crushing as one could hope." Mathis then brightened. "And yet a victory is still a victory, and all the sweeter for coming without the need for great sacrifice on the part of our men. It is truly refreshing to once again savour this sweet taste after the bitterness of Storm's end and Bitterbridge. Have you any thoughts as to what we might call this battle Ser Leo?"

"I couldn't say my lord. I couldn't say."

Mathis stretched and leaned back in his saddle to watch the crows descend to feast upon the slain northmen. "I'm sure the singers will think of something."


	7. Chapter 7 (Arya, Sansa, Tyrion)

Arya  
  
Life under Ser Amory Lorch had been bad before, but now with Lord Bolton putting Harrenhal under siege it was much worse three weeks of siege had done much to make stress mount on the knight. The vile tempered knight was even more cruel now than he had been before. Rations for the servants fell to nothing more than a single small bowl of watery soup a day. Ser Amory was paranoid about even the slightest hint of disobedience he had people whipped in the yard for even the smallest infraction. People like Pia, a buttery maid, who was whipped to death for speaking out of turn. Arya hadn’t liked Pia, she’d been eager to serve, and fuck, the Lannister men, but she hadn’t deserve this. _Maybe I should have made Jaqen kill Ser Amory instead of the Mountain_?  
  
When the deed was done Pia’s body was thrown into the bear pit to feed the great black beast. That night, as she lay on her bed of straw, Arya added a new name to her list. Jeryn the Whipper. Not even the prisoners were safe from Ser Amory’s wrath, where they had once been given freedom of the castle they were now forced into the dungeons. When one of them, an enormously fat man with a great walrus moustache, protested he was whipped as well and thrown into the bear pit.  
  
The next day it was Hot Pie who was whipped to death and thrown into a bear pit. He had burned a tart. Ser Amory’s men dragged him screaming out of the kitchens and into the Flowstone Yard, where he was stripped naked and tied to a post. He screamed even louder as the whipping commenced.  
  
A man shouted. “A stag if you can get him in the balls!”  
  
Jeryn earned his silver. And he earned even more as he hit target after target, ears, hands, arse, and legs. They whipped Hot Pie until his back was stripped of flesh revealing his ribs and spine. They threw his ruined body into the bear pit. Arya made herself watch as they whipped him, as the bear, full from it’s previous feasts, tossed her friend around like a doll, she made herself remember.  
  
Later in the day Arya’s tasks took her into the armoury, while she waited for a smith she slipped a small dagger into her shift. A smith’s apprentice was whipped for losing the dagger. From the store rooms beneath the Wailing Tower she stole some rope and hid it in a crevice beneath the Tower of Ghosts. Another girl was whipped when it was found that there was one too few spools of rope.  
  
That night she waited in her bed of straw, waited for the rest of the castle to be asleep, and then she waited even longer just to be sure. When the time was right she moved, quiet as a shadow just as Syrio had taught her, she stepped over and around the sleeping servants out of the Wailing Tower. Hiding within the great shadows of the massive towers, Arya made her way across the rain stricken yards and into the Tower of Ghosts where she slipped the rope under her cloak, wrapping it around her body.  
  
Arya slipped through the shadow of the Tower of Ghosts. She walked fast, to keep ahead of her fear, and she felt like Syrio Forel walked beside her, and Yoren, and Jaqen H'ghar, and Jon Snow. She clutched the dagger she had stolen from the armoury, she ached for Needle, but for this the dagger would be better. It was good and sharp and small, easy to hide until the right moment. She approached the northwest walls, the most ruined of Harrenhals great curtain walls, where great cracks and fissures and bulges warped the smooth stone.  
  
She stayed to the shadows, grateful for the rainclouds that blocked out the moon and the stars, and crept alongside the wall to the stairs. The stairs were narrow and rounded by dragonfire and three centuries of rain. They looked like melted wax, save for the cracks that lined their surface. She paused near the top of the stairs pushing herself into a crevice where the stairs seemed to pull away from the wall, waiting for the sound of a guard, she hardly dared to breath.  
  
Thump. Thump. Thump. The sound of boots on stone made her want to squirm but she kept still her grey cloak turned dark by the rain trying to blending into the stone. The guard squelched past the stairs, muttering curses, he never bothered to look down the stairs. To look where Arya was hiding.  
  
Arya took ten slow breaths and then moved, quick as a cat and quiet as a shadow, across the broad flat top of the curtain wall to the crenellations on the other side. She looked over them, the wall seemed even taller than she remembered, and the crenellations to big for her to tie a rope. She touched the rope wound around her chest and belly she had to find something to tie it too. There! A broken crenellation that had melted to form a stone spike that leaned out, away from the wall, like a broken tooth from a dragon’s mouth. Arya ran over and quickly looped the rope around the spike and tied a knot, then another, and a third, and a fourth just to be safe. She threw the rest of the rope over the side. She pulled the rope down into the crevice where it seemed the spike might break away at any moment, the better to hide it.  
  
Arya clambered onto the crenellation and found herself staring down into the darkness. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. Arya grabbed the rope and swung herself over the wall. Her feet skidded over slick stone but she held herself with the rope hand by hand she crept down the wall. The wet rope burned her hands, sharp edges of stone dug into her feet. But she did it Arya jumped the last five feet and landed on the wet ground with a squelch as her feet sunk six inches into the mud. Arya paused a moment straining her ears for the sound of marching feet, or a horn. But there was nothing.  
  
She took a deep breath and began her journey to the northern camp. She stayed low crouching beneath her cloak, trying to avoid the many small bushes that filled the open ground between the walls and the forests. She stepped lightly to avoid breaking twigs, but she needn’t have bothered they were so waterlogged and the ground so soft that they just bent and sank into the mud. At last she came into view of the camp. Arya saw a guard and stood making no effort to hide, instead she approached the guard openly. The guard called out. “Who are you?”  
  
“Weasel,” she replied. “I’m a servant in Harrenhal.”  
  
“Step forward,” the guard commanded.  
  
When she got closer, she saw that he was short and broad with a little wisp of beard. He huddled in a ragged fur cloak, at the edge of the camp. When she reached him she pushed back her cloak so he would see the ragged serving clothes. She could see the gleam of steel under the cloak, he almost reminded Arya of her father's guards, save that his surcoat bore a red man on pink rather than the direwolf of Stark. For a moment she was a scared little girl again, and the rain on her face felt like tears.  
  
"Servant, you say?" He did not believe her. “What brings you out? Did Ser Amory send you?”  
  
Arya shook her head. “No, I escaped. With a rope. I- it’s still there you could get in.” The guard straightened at that eying her warily. He whistled twice, long and loudly. From deeper in the camp Arya saw someone move in the light of the low fires. It was another northman with steel greaves on his long legs, and a fur cloak over his mail.  
  
“What is it Helman?”  
  
The guard, Helman pushed Arys forward. “Walton, this girl, Weasel she said her name was, said she escaped from Harrenhal, that she’s got a way for us to get in.”  
  
Walton leaned in front of Arya looking straight into her eyes. Arya stared back. Walton turned to Helman. “Wait here.”  
  
Walton returned to the camp leaving Arya alone with Helman the guard. Arya opened her mouth to speak but the words died in her throat. Helman himself seemed content to silence.  
  
It felt like hours passed before Walton returned with another man with a long triangle beard, and wore dark mottled clothes over leather armour, his only weapon appeared to be a broad-bladed dagger.  
  
“Weasel, this is Lorche he’s going with you.”  
  
The new man, Lorche, left Walton’s side grabbed Arya’s shoulder and said. “Let’s see about this rope shall we.” He pushed Arya forward, into the night.  
  
The closer they got to the castle, the closer they got to the ground, first it was simply crouching but before long Lorche was crawling on the ground, he made Arya do the same. “Follow in my wake,” he told her. So that’s what Arya did as she and Lorche crept through the night moving ever so slowly. It was raining so hard and the ground was so wet that they were practically sliding over a sea of mud. It took thrice as long for Arya to get back to the walls as it had for her to first reach the camp and by the time they reached the walls both were covered in mud.  
  
lorche grunted. “I’ll be damned you weren’t lying. How in the hells you managed to get out I don’t know. But,” the man grabbed onto the rope and began to pull himself up. “Best get to business. Hurry up after me.” Arya did as she was bid and climbed the slick wall after him.  
  
After Lorche reached the top but before Arya had she heard an abortive gasp and the sound of someone falling. Heart in her throat she climbed as fast as she could and clambered over to see Lorche wiping his dagger clean on the red cloak of the guardsman who had passed Arya earlier.  
  
“Where’s a good place to hide him?”  
  
“On the stairs there’s a crevice.”  
  
“Good,” Lorche pulled off the guardsman's crimson cloak and pulled it over himself. Together they pushed the dead man into the crevice and walked openly into the yard like they were supposed to be there. Together they approached a postern gate the least of Harrenhal’s gates. The guard there stepped away from the wall. “Tom is that you? Is it that time already?”  
  
Lorche moved quickly and quietly, his head down and his hood up, right up to the guardsman and in a single quick movement pushed him into the archway and cut his throat. His blood sprayed out in a hot gush and he tried to shout but there was blood in his mouth as well.  
  
Arya whispered. “Valar Morghulis,” as the man died.  
  
Arya stepped into the shelter of the arch and waited a moment. She waited for shouts, for horns, for trumpets, for an alarm of any kind. But there was only the sound of rain falling on the molten stone yards of Harrenhal. Lorche didn’t wait for the man to stop moving to the dead man deep into the shadows.  
  
Arya hefted the beam out off the door and set it aside, she pulled open the heavy oak door and then stepped back into the arch where she was sheltered from the rain. Lorche grabbed her shoulder and shoved something into her hand, gold ring with a red man made of a ruby. “Give Walton that. Now go girl! Tell the camp!” he pushed her through the door and then pulled it shut. Arya didn’t waste a moment she ran as fast as she could across the field  
  
She was exhausted by the time she arrived this time the guards were waiting for her, they took her to Walton and when she gave him the ring Lorche had given her he smiled. A man in a red and pink surcoat took her to a large tent near the center of the camp. Two guards outside opened the flap letting Arya and her guard inside. The guard approached a man who was plain faced, beardless, and ordinary, except for his queer pale eyes. Neither plump, thin, or muscular, he wore black ringmail and a spotted pink cloak. _Lord Bolton_. Of what the man said to him Arya only caught. “Gods smiled on her.”  
  
Lord Bolton answered the man, but he was also to quiet to hear. After a brief moment, the long legged man approached Arya and took her by the shoulder and firmly, but not ungently, led her across the yard.  
  
“This is her m’lord, the girl who opened the gate.”  
  
A thin smile twitched across Lord Bolton’s lips. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Weasel,” she replied.  
  
“You will say my lord girl. Weasel,” he sniffed. “That will not serve. What name did your mother give you?”  
  
She bit her lip, reaching for another name. Lommy had called her Lumpyhead, Sansa used Horseface, and her father's men once named her Underfoot, but she did not think any of those were the sort of name he wanted.  
  
“Nymeria,” she said. “Only she called me Nan for short.”  
  
“You will call me my lord when you speak to me, Nan,” Lord Bolton reminded her mildly. “Are you afraid of leeches, child?”  
  
“"They're only leeches, my lord.”  
  
“My squire could take a lesson from you, it would seem. Frequent leechings are the secret of a long life. A man must purge himself of bad blood. You will do, I think. For so long as I remain at Harrenhal, Nan, you shall be my cupbearer, and serve me at the table and in my chambers.”  
  
“Yes, your lord. I mean, my lord.”  
  
Lord Bolton waved a hand. “Make her presentable,” he said to no one in particular. "And make certain she knows how to pour wine without spilling it.” He stood and left the tent. Moments later Arya heard war horns come to life all around her, and the roar of thousands of men.  
  
It was not even morning when Arya, dressed in a fresh pink and red tunic was brought into Harrenhal. She saw Lord Bolton, the new master of Harrenhal, atop his horse before the assembled host, prisoners, and servants. His squire carried the flayed man banner. "On your knees for the Lord of the Dreadfort!" shouted his squire, a boy no older than Arya, and Harrenhal knelt. Save for the man with the long legs and steel greaves Arya had met earlier that night, Walton his name was, who approached Lord Bolton and spoke to him. He turned away and lifted a hand. “Walton, see to those banners above the gatehouse.”  
  
Four Bolton men climbed to the ramparts and hauled down the lion of Lannister and Ser Amory's own black manticore. In their place they raised the flayed man of the Dreadfort and the direwolf of Stark. And that evening, a page named Nan poured wine for Roose Bolton as he stood on the gallery, watching Northmen parade Ser Amory Lorch and Jeryn the Whipper naked through the middle ward. They pleaded and sobbed and clung to the legs of their captors, until they were pulled loose, and kicked down into the bear pit.  
  
Arya filled Roose Bolton's cup, and did not spill a drop. That night she had two less names to say.

 

Sansa

 

The great hall of Goldengrove was sea of jewels, furs, and bright fabrics. Lords and ladies filled the back of the hall and stood beneath the high windows, jostling like fishwives on a dock.

The denizens of Joffrey's court had striven to outdo each other today. Queen Cersei shimmered in a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy velvet, while beside her Varys fussed and simpered in a lilac brocade. Even Lady Tanda and her sole remaining daughter Falyse looked pretty in matching gowns of turquoise silk and vair, and the delicate Lady Arwyn Oakheart fanned herself with fan of emerald silk trimmed with golden lace. King Joffrey sat above them all, at the high table in a great chair of silver and gold carved and molded into the shape of a golden tree. He was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his head his heavy golden crown.

Seated beside the queen mother and the king were their hosts the Lady Bethany of Goldengrove was splendid in a gown of silver and gold with a broach of amethysts shaped like a cluster of grapes, while her daughters, the elder Serra, who was a maiden of seven and ten, and the younger Elinor who was ten, wore matching gowns of green with brocaded gold and silver trees. Her son, a boy of two and ten, who was named Gunthor after his grandfather, wore a doublet of cloth-of-silver with a golden tree emblazoned on the front.

Squirming through a press of knights, squires, and rich townsfolk, Sansa reached the front of the gallery just as a blast of trumpets announced the entry of Lord Tywin Lannister.

He rode his warhorse down the length of the hall and dismounted before King Joffrey. Sansa had never seen such armor; all burnished red steel, inlaid with golden scrollwork and ornamentation. His rondels were sunbursts, the roaring lion that crowned his helm had ruby eyes, and a lioness on each shoulder fastened a cloth-of-gold cloak so long and heavy that it draped the hindquarters of his charger. Even the horse's armor was gilded, and his bardings were shimmering crimson silk emblazoned with the lion of Lannister.

Joffrey descended from the high table to embrace the impressive figure of his grandfather and proclaim him Defender of the Realm. The king made a show of asking his grandfather to assume governance of the realm, and Lord Tywin solemnly accepted the responsibility, "until Your Grace does come of age." Then squires removed his armor and Joff fastened the Hand's chain of office around his neck. Lord Tywin took a seat at the council table beside the queen. After the destrier was led off, Cersei nodded for the ceremonies to continue.

A fanfare of brazen trumpets greeted each of the heroes as he stepped between the great oaken doors. Heralds cried his name and deeds for all to hear, and the noble knights and highborn ladies cheered as lustily as cutthroats at a cockfight. Places of pride were given to heroes of the battle, the Feast for Crows it was being called, Lord Arthur Ambrose, Ser Addam Marbrand, Ser Leo Blackbar and of course Lord Mathis Rowan, whose armour was almost as splendid as Lord Tywin’s every inch of it gilded in silver that was so brightly polished it sparkled like stars in the midnight sky, his silver plate was trimmed in gold and had passages from the Seven Pointed Star worked in gold into the scrollwork of the larger plates. His helm was crowned by a golden tree whose twisting roots formed his visor and worked their way down his neck to join the twin hands of emerald that fastened his cloak to his shoulders, no doubt a reference to House Rowan’s descent from Garth Greenhand.

Following them was the newly arrived Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, a once-powerful man gone to fat, yet still handsome and his son Ser Garlan the Gallant. The two were dressed alike, in green velvet trimmed with sable.

Again Joffrey descended from the high table, Lord Mathis’ own table and his own grand chair, and approached the kneeling Lord of Goldengrove. He fastened about Lord Mathis’ throat a chain of tree branches wrought in soft yellow gold, from which hung a golden disc with the lion of Lannister picked out in rubies. "The tree has supported the lion, as the might of Goldengrove supports the realm," proclaimed Joffrey. "If there is any boon you would ask of me, ask and it shall be yours."

_ Now what comes _ ?

The Lord of Goldengrove looked almost too earnest in his devotion as he looked upwards upon the king. "Your Grace, I have a maiden daughter, Elinor, the light of my House and of my life. She is only ten namedays old and knows not of the hardship of winter and I cannot bear her to go to some older man of an aruined wooden keep. She and I have both heard of the kindness your younger brother, Prince Tommen, bestows upon all he sees. I beseech you to have them betrothed to each other and in future years wedded."

King Joffrey smiled upon Lord Mathis. “My Lord Rowan you have done great services to us and to the realm in aiding my lord grandfather in crushing the traitor Robb Stark, I of course grant you this wish and with all my heart bless this union between Prince Tommen and Lady Elinor. Rise my Lord and take your rightful place amongst my council.” The king lifted the stout lord to his feet and stepped away to let the readied squires remove his armour and allow the king to present him with golden rod for Lord Mathis’ position as the Master of Laws. Lord Mathis joined the council seating himself opposite to Lord Tywin and next to Grand Maester Pycelle.

Little lady Elinor looked utterly delighted and beamed up at her father.  _ I pray for your sake that Tommen grows to be a much different man than his brother _ .

Joffrey then approached Ser Garlan Tyrell, who was a taller bearded version of his father. He was just as thick about the chest and as broad at the shoulders, but on Garlan it was muscle instead of fat. "Your Grace," Garlan said when the king approached him, "I have a maiden sister, Margaery, the delight of our House. She was wed to Renly Baratheon, as you know, but Lord Renly went to war before the marriage could be consummated, so she remains innocent. Margaery has heard tales of your wisdom, courage, and chivalry, and has come to love you from afar. I beseech you to send for her, to take her hand in marriage, and to wed your House to mine for all time."

King Joffrey made a show of looking surprised. "Ser Garlan, your sister's beauty is famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, but I am promised to another. A king must keep his word." he looked toward Sansa as he said this.

Queen Cersei got to her feet in a rustle of skirts. "Your Grace, it is the judgment of your small council, that it would not be proper nor wise for you to wed the daughter of a man beheaded for treason, a girl whose brother is, despite his defeat, in open rebellion against the throne even now. Sire, your councillors beg you, for the good of your realm, set Sansa Stark aside. The Lady Margaery will make you a far more suitable queen."

Like a pack of trained dogs, the lords and ladies in the hall began to shout their pleasure. "Margaery," they called. "Give us Margaery!" and "No traitor queens! Tyrell! Tyrell!"

Sansa leaned forward, her hands tight around the gallery's wooden rail. She knew what came next, but she was still frightened of what Joffrey might say, afraid that he would refuse to release her even now, when his whole kingdom depended upon it. She felt as if she were back again on the marble steps outside the Great Sept of Baelor, waiting for her prince to grant her father mercy, and instead hearing him command Ilyn Payne to strike off his head.  _ Please _ , she prayed fervently,  _ make him say it _ ,  _ make him say it _ !

Joffrey stared sullenly into the distance for a few moments but, after shifting his feet, raised Lord Mace to his feet and kissed him upon both cheeks proclaiming. “If it is the wish of you, your sister, and mine council then I will gladly wed your sweet sister.”

Sansa felt curiously light-headed.  _ I am free _ . She could feel eyes upon her.  _ I must not smile _ , she reminded herself. The queen had warned her; no matter what she felt inside, the face she showed the world must look distraught. The queen did not want her son humiliated not on this day, not ever, and especially not by Sansa.  _ Now what will become of me _ ?

Joffrey then approached the aging Mace Tyrell Lord of Highgarden and the erstwhile liege of Lord Mathis. "Your Grace," Lord Mace said when the king approached him. "I have but one wish.”

“Name it and it shall be granted my lord.”

Lord Mace’s hands clenched into fists and his jaw clenched. “Vengeance Your Grace, I ask for vengeance and justice for my murdered son! I wish only for the head of Lord Stannis rotting upon the walls of Highgarden!”

There was silence in the hall. Sansa glanced to the high table and saw that even Lord Tywin was surprised.  _ Lord Mace was supposed to say something else _ , she realized.

The silence was broken by Joffrey who laughed as he embraced Lord Mace. “Of course my lord of course you will have your vengeance. I will give you Stannis’ head myself!” A smattering of applause broke out from the attending lords as Lord Mace and his son made their way to a lower table where the other guests of honour were seated.

It was surprising to hear the trumpets announce, after so many great lords with their long titles and retinues, a simple name and a simple man. “Bronn, a swordsman in service to King Joffrey.”

Sansa heard the steps of a solitary man, a queer dragging sound, but she could not see this man. For her view was blocked by a plump lordling and his lady wife. All she heard were gasps as the man slowly made his way forward. At last she saw the man, dark haired, dark eyed, lean, and wolfish wearing a dark brown wool doublet, and what he carried.

“Oh gods no,” she let slip.

It was a hide. A great hide of smoke grey fur so large it dragged on the floor, though Bronn used both arms to carry it. Despite the time Sansa recognized it on sight, it was Grey Wind. Bronn carried Grey Wind’s hide the length of the hall before setting it on the floor beneath the high table and kneeling behind it.

“Your Grace,” said Bronn, clearly unused to speaking before so many. “I gift unto you the hide of Robb Stark’s wolf, which was slain by my own hands.”

Joffrey stared for a time at the hide. “Bronn,” he said, his voice full of authority. “I would make you Ser Bronn. Ser Bronn Wolfsbane,” he smiled. “And more I gift unto you a sword, a suit of plate, your pick of the royal stables.”

_ Which now belong to Lord Stannis _ , they had received news of the fall of King’s Landing a week past.

“And,” continued Joffrey. “With the death of Ser Gregor and his brother Sandor’s place in my Kingsguard the lands of Clegane Keep are without a master, or rather they were without one for I grant them to you Ser,” and with that Ser Mandon Moore stepped forward, drew his sword and touched Bronn upon his shoulder and his head.

Along with Bronn over three hundred knights were made that day, though Sansa heard not their names nor saw their faces. It was all she could do not to cry when she looked at Grey Wind’s hide, and she felt it impossible to look anywhere else. She stared into the amber that had replaced his eyes, and sometimes swore she saw Grey Wind… saw Robb looking back at her.

It took time for all the knights to be given their sers and now the hall was growing restive. None more so than Joffrey. Some in the gallery began to quietly slip away, but those unlucky enough to on the floor or in places of honor were trapped, unable to depart without the king's leave. Judging by the way he was fidgeting at the high table, he would willingly have granted it, but the day's work was far from done. For the captives were now ushered in.

And Sansa’s heart broke for she recognized many of them. Smalljon Umber, now Lord of Last Hearth after his father’s death, the great fat Ser Wendel Manderly who valued honour above all else, Hoster Woolfield, Torrhen Grouse who was Master of a holdfast two days ride north of Winterfell, Martyn Slate the Lord of Blackpool; and others who she recognized only by their banners, Tytos Blackwood Lord of Raventree Hall and his three eldest sons Brynden, Lucas, and Hoster, Lord Hosteen Root, Lords Norbert Vance and Karyl Vance of Atranta and Wayfarer’s Rest, Ser Ryam Frey and many many more.

Joffrey seemed to grow more interested now that the possibility of a beheading was present. He stood from his chair. “You are traitors,” he declared. “And the punishment for treason is death. But I am not unmerciful those of you who renounce your treachery and your loyalty to the rebels Robb Stark and Hoster Tully and swear anew your oaths to the crown will be welcomed into the king's peace and all your lands and rights restored you. Those who do not will meet the same fate as your comrades did at the Feast for Crows,” Joffrey waved his hand. “Your words will decide your fate.”

_ Northmen do not beg _ , Sansa thought proudly. But beg they did, by the score northmen and riverlanders alike bent the knee and begged for Joffrey’s forgiveness. However a handful remained defiant, though the only great lords amongst them were Jon Umber, and Ser Wendel Manderly.

The giant man stumbled forward in his chains shouting. “I will not kneel to the likes of you! A bastard and a craven! You are no true king! The only king I mean to bend the knee to is the KING IN THE NORTH!”

“Surely you mean the King Who Lost The North,” japed Lord Petyr from his seat at the high table, provoking a volley of laughter from the southrons.

Lord Jon continued shouting at Joffrey. "You are scum unworthy of being scraped off my boot! A freak born of incest! Maegor the Cruel born anew!”

Joffrey lurched to his feet. "I'm king! Kill him! Kill him now! I command it." He chopped down with his hand, a furious, angry gesture that sent a goblet of wine flying. From out of the shadows by the high table, the Hound came forward to follow his king’s command. He moved quickly from the base of the high table to cut down the chained lord of the Last Hearth where he stood with a single swing of his sword.

For a few moments only silence reigned in the great hall of Goldengrove, but from high in the gallery a voice said. “Thus the fate of all traitors! Hail King Joffrey! Long may he reign!”

“Long may he reign,” echoed the crowd though Sansa said it without conviction.

 

Tyrion  
  
Tyrion stood in the throne room of the Red Keep as he, along with all the other noble prisoners, were forced to watch the coronation of Stannis Baratheon. In the galleries above them watched the lords and ladies of the Reach; Fossoways green and red, Florents, Meadows, and Cuys; the Stormlands Estermonts, Wensingtons, Errols, Selmys, and Swanns; the newly arrived Rykker, Rosby, Thorne, and Chelsted from the Crownlands; And even a smattering of Riverlords, chief among them a man wearing the red salmon of House Mooton, though Tyrion did not think him to be Lord Mooton himself.  
  
The man of the hour was cloaked in cloth-of-gold upon which the black stag of Baratheon was proudly emblazoned in shimmering jet. Stannis faced away from the crowd and toward the monstrous looming presence of the Iron Throne. _With any luck he’ll cut his wrists on it when he goes to sit_. Tyrion wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not but he thought he could hear the grinding of teeth as Stannis endured the end of the High Septon’s speech.  
  
At long last the High Septon concluded with. “And in the name of all the gods rise Stannis of the House Baratheon, the King of the Andals the Rhoynar and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign!” The High Septon placed a crown of gold antlers and jet upon Stannis bald head.  
  
“Long may he reign,” echoed the crowd though Tyrion said it without conviction. _One True King of Westeros_?  
  
The High Septon quickly stepped aside as Stannis began his march towards the Iron Throne. A crash of metal on stone made Tyrion jump, it was Stannis’ own soldiers, the ones who carried the strange new weapons Tyrion had heard being called hand-dragons. With each step their king took the soldiers bashed the buts of their weapons into the floor and shouted. “ONE REALM! ONE KING!”  
  
Step. Crash. Step. “ONE REALM!” Step. “ONE KING!” Step. Crash.  
  
And on it went the shouts of five hundred men ringing through the throne room like the chanting of a horde of fanatics worshipping their god. From where he stood Tyrion could just see a red haired woman, dressed all in red with a ruby on her choker, mouthing another part to the chant. _Looks like she’s saying One God_ …  
  
The chanting mounted as Stannis passed between his only two Kingsguard, Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Rolland Storm who both stood guard at the base of the Iron Throne, and slowly Stannis began his ascent. At last Stannis reached to the summit, silencing his followers, and seated himself upon the Iron Throne his golden cloak flowed down the steps of the Iron Throne, while the stripes of black silk and garnets sparkled on his golden surcoat. _If only Ser Rolland or Ser Richard has chosen that moment to emulate my brother_.  
  
Davos Seaworth, Stannis’ Onion Lord in simple armour and a grey surcoat his only ornamentation being a badge of golden antlers on his left shoulder, stepped forward from his place among the commanders of Stannis’ host and proclaimed. “Hail Stannis King!” And the dragonmen answered. “HAIL STANNIS KING!”  
  
Their shouts echoed lightly through the throne room as Stannis waited, seemingly content to bask in the glory of his ascension. He leaned forward, looming over the assembled lords, ladies, knights, and prisoners. He spoke slowly, with certainty, with purpose.“Ser Robar Royce, Ser Timon the Scrapesword, Ser Andrew Estermont, Ser Boros Rambton, and Ser Emmon Cuy. Step forward.” The five named knights, who each wore well made but unornamented steel plate beneath their cloaks, advanced to the base of the Iron Throne and knelt in their armour. _Like penitents before the altar_.  
  
Stannis looked down upon the five men, he stayed silent for a few moments, tension mounted slowly in the hall. “You have all served with bravery and with honour. Some longer than others,” his gaze seemed to settle on Ser Emmon and Ser Robar before sliding away. “But all of you with distinction. I would reward such actions.” Stannis gestured with his right hand, and from behind the Iron Throne came five pages carrying five white cloaks. “A place in my Kingsguard for each of you.”  
  
As one the five knights rose to their feet in silence. It was Ser Robar who spoke for the five men. “Your Grace, I speak for us all when I say that this is an honour beyond measure, and that it is with gratitude equally beyond measure that we accept and take our places in your Kingsguard.”  
  
The five men doffed their old cloaks of bronze, brown, pale green, orange, and yellow, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and stepped onto the dais to accept their new cloaks of snow white silk. Then the men took their places around the Iron Throne with Ser Richard and Ser Rolland greeting their new brothers with solemn and silent nods.  
  
Stannis met the eyes of each of his new Kingsguard in turn and gave each a grave nod. Stannis flexed his hands and turned his attention back to the crowd. “Lord Eldon Estermont, come forward.”  
  
The lord in question was an old man of seventy, bald and white-bearded though still robust and strong of body, a legacy of strength he had passed on to his grandson, who now sat upon the Iron Throne. Lord Eldon wore a cloak of pale green silk bordered with jade turtles and a broad belt of black leather with silver studs around his waist. He knelt on the stone floor before the heap of old cloaks and the Iron Throne. Tyrion strained his ears to try and hear the sound of creaking knees, but he was disappointed.  
  
“My lord, long did you faithfully serve my brothers Lord Renly and King Robert, and before him my father Lord Steffon, and his father Lord Ormund before him. I too would have use for your wise and leal council as my Master of Ships.”  
  
Lord Edlon raised his head and faced his grandson. “I would gladly take a place on your council Your Grace.”  
  
“Then rise my lord, and be seated.”  
  
Stannis hardly waited for Lord Eldon to join Lord Alester at the council table when he called out again. “Lord Ardrian Celtigar, come forward.”  
  
The Lord of Claw Isle was a stoop shouldered and sour old man, whose mantle was patterned with red garnet crabs. Like Lord Eldon before him he knelt before the Iron Throne.  
  
“My lord, many times these past years since the castle of Dragonstone was granted to me have you offered your services and your council, both in war and in peace. Further your skill as a man of skill in the matters of gold is well known, and it would please me to have you as my Master of Coin.”  
  
_More like well known for being the greediest cunt on this side of Westeros_.  
  
Lord Ardrian looked up at his liege lord and said. “You honour me beyond words Your Grace, I will gladly do as you bid and join your council.”  
  
“Then rise my lord, and be seated.”  
  
Seemingly satisfied with filling out his Kingsguard and his Small Council Stannis now turned to other matters. There were other rewards to be given. House Stokeworth was stripped of their lands and titles in retribution for fleeing with Joffrey, those lands were then given to Ser Justin Massey. Allard Seaworth, the second son of the Onion Lord, was given the lands of the extinct House Mallery, whose sole scion and lord, Lothar had drowned at the Mummer’s Ford. Two foreigners were also recognized, a man named Masuro Kichashiro who wore robes in a strange style Tyrion didn’t recognized that were nonetheless emblazoned with Baratheon stags, was raised to knighthood and promised a place in Stannis’ household, while the second, a woman named Asami Sato, was granted a manse in the city and a royal stipend. _I’d say she’s a mistress_ , _but this is Stannis for the Seven’s sake_. The septon who had led the smallfolk of King’s Landing in revolt and whose name turned out to be Osmond, was honoured with the funds to build a septry in the ruins of Flea Bottom that would work towards feeding and caring for the poor.  
  
The flood of titles and honours being let out was endless and utterly overwhelming, the kind of talk that would send someone to sleep after more than a few minutes. And Tyrion even felt himself succumbing to the grotesque lullaby, until noticed a pattern. The scions of great houses with thousands of years of history behind them were given prestigious yet empty honours, they were promised lands that were not yet Stannis’ to give, and, with a great deal of difficulty on Stannis’ part, courteously flattered. And yet even as the great estates were given to them the holdfasts were filled with third sons or worse, with hedge knights, or with upjumped commoners, many of whom had served Stannis for years. And the captaincies of Stannis’ dragonmen seemed reserved for these men as well. Lord Ardrian Celtigar might have been Master of Coin but it was the merchants of the Antler Men, who had conspired to seize the Lion Gate during the battle, that filled the ranks of the lesser offices. _One Realm_! _One King_! Seemed to bang away in Tyrion’s mind as he watched Stannis lay the foundations his rule. With his followers satisfied Stannis now looked upon the ranks of prisoners, Tyrion among them, who took up half the hall.  
  
“You have fought for and been captured fighting for the false king Joffrey Waters, that is treason and the punishment for treason is death. And yet I am not without mercy,” said he who was infamously merciless. “I once said that there were men good and true who would fight for Joffrey, wrongly believing him the true king. It is for that reason I give you all one chance to make anew your oaths to myself, the One True King of Westeros.”  
  
“Ser Jacelyn Bywater,” called the king, and the one handed knight stepped forward. “In previous times I spoke often of the corruption that infested the City Watch, a corruption that had its source in the person of Janos Slynt and half of his officers. You were not one of those officers, if you would beg my mercy I would grant it and free you of your chains, and restore you to your rightfully earned position of Lord Commander.”  
  
Ser Jacelyn knelt and was freed from his chains. He was the first of many to do so, lordlings and knights from the West and the Crownlands begged a chance to serve Stannis and regain their honour. But only a few were as lucky as Ser Jacelyn. Most of the prisoners were condemned to death after Stannis announced their crimes, others who confessed their own crimes, no doubt after having already been convinced to do so by Stannis, were allowed to live but with lands and titles stripped from them and returned to the crown, some few who had committed particularly heinous acts were forced to join the Night’s Watch even after they had confessed.  
  
The mummery continued until only four men stood where there had once been hundreds. Tyrion, Ser Meryn, Ser Preston and Lancel.  
  
Stannis called Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield forward at the same time. The two knights of Joffrey’s kingsguard had been stripped of their armour and fine clothes, they had been left only with common undyed wool. Stannis glared down at the two men. “I said men who were good and true would gain one chance to make their oaths anew. However Ser Meryn and Ser Preston you are both neither good nor true, you have both betrayed your oaths, both as kingsguard and as knights, a hundred times or more. Whoring, murder, beating innocents, corruption.” Preston and Meryn had began to shiver as Stannis’ voice rose as he continued to lay out each crime upon them. “All these by themselves would more than warrant your execution. Not to mention your treason as well.” Stannis glanced away for a moment, towards the Onion Lord, Stannis waved his hand dismissing the two men. “Take them to the black cells.” Dragonmen dragged the two crying men away.  
  
“Lancel Lannister.”  
  
At the utterance of his name, Tyrion’s cousin shuffled forward and knelt. It was the first Tyrion had seen of Lancel since they had been captured, his cousin did not look well, his clothes were soiled, his hair unwashed, and he was covered in dirt. The legacy of his stay in the black cells no doubt. Tyrion didn’t have a mirror but he expected that his own appearance was just a bad.  
  
“You wish to confess your crimes?”  
  
“Yes Your Grace,” Lancel mumbled.  
  
“Then proceed.”  
  
“Adultery, I… I fornicated with Queen Cersei. Treason a- and regicide, upon the command of my lover, the queen, I conspired to bring about the death of King Robert and place the abomination Joffrey Waters upon the Iron Throne.”  
  
“Such crimes are worth death,” intoned Stannis.  
  
“They are Your Grace, but I throw myself upon your mercy and ask to be allowed to join the Night’s Watch to live out the rest of my days in service to the realm,” Lancel said these words by rote. The crimes are real enough I’ll grant, but this is not but mummery just to make Stannis’ seem even more the righteous avenger.  
  
“Let this act of mercy not be forgotten,” said Stannis. “Take him to await his passage north.” Stannis looked away from the weeping Lancel. “Tyrion Lannister,” he called.  
  
In silence Tyrion waddled away from his lonely place. Like those before him Tyrion knelt before the Iron Throne. He had to arch his back and neck too see the black and gold figure enthroned far above everyone else.  
  
“Tyrion Lannister, you have committed the crime of treason in fighting for the false king and in aiding his flight from the capital into the arms of other traitors, in so doing you have prolonged a war which will cost the lives of tens of thousands more of my subjects.” Tyrion clenched his fists. _If you’re going to take my head be done with it already_.  
  
Stannis tapped a finger in the Iron Throne. “You will sail with your cousin. To the Wall,” Stannis stood and addressed the gallery. “This council is done. You have my leave.” The two dragonmen reached Tyrion, each taking him by an arm and all but lifting him off the floor as they dragged him out of the throne room. Tyrion allowed this indignity only because he was struck dumb that he still had his head.


	8. Chapter 8 (Mathis, Tyrion, Davos, Catelyn)

Mathis

 

Fire. Blood. Smoke. Death.

 

Mathis woke with a start, covered in sweat, and he felt a hand on his chest. Bethany looked at him concern in her deep blue eyes. “You were having a nightmare.”

 

Mathis swung the linen sheets aside, rolled over, and swung his legs over the bed, letting his feet rest on the floor. He leaned on his knees trying to push the final shreds of the nightmare drift away as he forced himself to breath deeply of the crisp morning air of Goldengrove.

 

“Was it Ashford again?” Bethany asked crawling forward to lean against his back and wrap an arm around him.

 

“No,” Mathis heaved an answer from his gasping chest. “It was Storm’s End... and Ashford,” he shook his head. “Some monstrous concoction of the two. Heh. The only thing worse than one Baratheon is two of them.”

 

Mathis shook his head and stepped away from the bed, throwing on a robe as he stepped out onto the balcony of his chambers. From there he looked east over the godswood and the open air sept at its center, which was framed by the seven, ancient, still living trees that surrounded the weirwood stump. The Sapling Tower that dominated the eastern parts of the castle, though still smaller than the great keep. The tall curtain walls that enveloped the castle. The town which Mathis and his ancestors had allowed to branch off from the eastern edge of Goldengrove, and then beyond that onto the massive camp that dominated the landscape.

 

Bethany joined him. “How many men are there now?”

 

“Better than fifty thousand now. Reachmen, Westermen, even a few Riverlanders, and Northerners. And more arriving every day, Hightower men mostly, though I did detect a particular vinegary smell, almost like bad wine, some of those blasted Redwyne’s I imagine.”

 

Bethany aimed an absentminded swat at Mathis’ head, which he easily avoided, but in so doing fell right into his wife’s trap. A sharp elbow in the ribs.

 

“You know I don’t like it when you say such things.”

 

“Then why are you smiling?”

 

She sniffed. “A courteous lady always smiles at her lord husband’s jokes. Even when they’re terrible.”

 

“Especially when they’re terrible,” Mathis added.

 

“Especially when they’re terrible,” she agreed, smiling as she did.

 

“It’s part of my charm.”

 

They stood in silence for a few long minutes watching the sunrise and watching Goldengrove come to life. From the balcony they could smell the fresh bread in the bakeries, see the smoke beginning to rise from the smithy, the guards replacing their tired fellows. _If I could spend the rest of my life here I would_ , _but the world is too dangerous for such dreams_.

 

Bethany stirred beside him. “What happened in the hall yesterday. What the king did was… ill done,” she said those last words so quietly they were nearly drowned out by the birds in the godswood.

 

Mathis replied just as quietly. “You’ll have no argument from me on that part. Lord Jon was a lord of the realm he did not deserve to be cut down like a mad dog.”

 

“Much less by a mad dog.”

 

“His Grace is certainly... decisive at the very least.”

 

“I don’t think it was decisiveness that prompted him. I saw his eyes as Lord Jon died… they were like a man seeing a naked woman for the first time. It reminded me a little of Aerys. It scares me to think Elinor will even be married to his brother.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry about it. When we were on the road I saw Prince Tommen playing with kittens. That boy couldn’t hurt a soul.”

 

“That’s not what I meant. Aerys didn’t care for what others wanted not even Lord Tywin, who was his closest friend. Why should Joffrey care what his brother thinks? I’ve heard the rumours. Prince Tommen plays with kittens, while King Joffrey cuts their still living mother open. Bless your prudence, that you didn’t try for Joffrey.”

 

Mathis nodded in agreement. “That would have been a bridge too far in any case. Lord Tywin would never have accepted and even if he had it would have sent Lady Olenna to scheming.”

 

Bethany let a silent chuckle ripple through her at the mention of her great-aunt. “She’s not so clever as she thinks she is.”

 

“All the more worry than, a clever woman knows her boundaries others might... overreach.”

 

Bethany snorted. “Queen Cersei reminds me of her, albeit with fangs and claws instead of thorns.”

 

“And not yet turned to vinegar by age.”

 

“Was that a wine joke?”

 

“...It might have been.”

 

His wife lashed out with another elbow to his ribs.

 

Mathis rubbed his poor bruised side. “I deserved that one.”

 

Mathis turned and wrapped his arms around Bethany and said in a deadly and quiet voice. “If Joffrey hurts our daughter there will be nothing in the world that would stop me from taking my vengeance. Not Cersei. Not Tywin. Not the gods. Not even the Others themselves.” Together they watched the sunrise.

 

A few hours later Mathis entered the Chamber of the Trees, a large open room at the top of a tower, the columns holding up the ceiling were shaped like rowan trees and the ceiling was formed like overlapping branches with golden leaves. The wide doors and windows opened up to a broad balcony, which circled the tower, and a  table and chairs, set aside for the Small Council, occupied the center of the tower. Of the Small Council Lord Tywin was already present as was Lord Varys, but Lord Baelish and Grand Maester Pycelle had not yet arrived. The rest of the room was occupied by various lords and the captains of the army.

 

Mathis saw a tired Lord Mace in a corner conferring with his son Ser Garlan. Ser Addam Marbrand had been granted the use of a stool, on account of his injured leg. Ser Kevan stood just behind his elder brother, whispering in his ear. Even those lords who were newly returned to the King’s peace were present. Though the assembled Westermen and Reachlords seemed to be ignoring their Riverlord and Northern counterparts.

 

“Good morning, my lords.”

 

A chorus of courteous greetings answered him, while Lord Tywin gave only a silent nod, the Spider tittered a greeting of his own. “Good morning to you as well Lord Rowan, I trust you slept well.”

 

Mathis decided to ignore what may or may not have been a revelation on the reach of the Spider’s little birds. “Wonderful to be back in mine own bed and my own wife,” he said with a grin taking a seat between Lord Tywin and Lord Varys, his jape provoking a small titter of laughter from the lords.

 

Mathis was still settling himself and trading polite bits of nonsense when both Lord Baelish and Grand Maester Pycelle arrived and took their own seats. Lord Tywin stood, motioning to his brother, and without delay the quiet murmurs that had filled the room vanished as Ser Kevan stepped forward and laid a great map of the southern half of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

Lord Tywin reached into a bag and began to place wooden markers across the kingdoms. A sun and spear in the Boneway and Prince’s Pass. _Damn Dornish_. There were lions and roses at Goldengrove, two smaller lions at the Golden Tooth and Lannisport, and another rose at Longtable and Highgarden. In the east there was a small stag at Bitterbridge and a larger one at King’s Landing. In the Riverlands there was a flayed man at Harrenhal and a smattering of smaller markers in a dozen castles, horses, twin towers, ravens, trout, dragons, and a single lonely wolf near Acorn Hall. With the map ready the meeting began.

 

“The Starks are done,” Lord Tywin said with grim finality. “For all that Robb Stark yet lives he cannot continue to fight and now all that remains is to pick up the pieces.” Lord Tywin spared a glance for Lord Blackwood and the Vances. “Already His Grace makes inroads into the Riverlands and the North, this must continue. Offers of clemency will be made to any lord who bends the knee.”

 

“Such actions might require a more… personal touch,” said Mathis but, before he could continue his line of thought and suggest himself for such a mission, Lord Tywin interrupted.

 

“I agree. Lord Baelish you were fostered at Riverrun, you know the Riverlords. In the name of King Joffrey you are charged with bringing the King’s Peace to the Riverlands.”

 

Littlefinger smiled. “An honour and a responsibility I graciously accept.”

 

 _Well played Littlefucker_. _Well played_. Mathis gave a mental shrug. _No matter a royal marriage will have to do for now_. _I_ _mustn't get too greedy_.

 

Lord Tywin returned his attention to the map. “Bitterbridge shields Stannis’ southwest flank and is a dagger pointed at the heart of the Reach. It must fall. Lord Mathis I’m told you know of what happens in the area?”

 

Mathis straightened. “Indeed my lord, my vassal Ser Marton Broadtree has been harassing the rebels and has been sending me regular reports. His last message says that there are near eight thousand men at Bitterbridge, with a similar number gathered at Longtable under Lord Orton Merryweather ready to be commanded.”

 

Tywin tapped a finger on the table. “Then that is where the majority of our forces will go. Stannis know doubt sees the same as potential for the castle as a base of attack. It must be taken and taken quickly. Ser Garlan,” he said suddenly. “ You have proved his worth in battle. Thus in the name of King Joffrey Ser Garlan is charged to lead an advance force from Longtable and Goldengrove to recapture Bitterbridge.”

 

Lord Mace gave a small, sober smile, while his handsome son stood and bowed towards the Hand of the King and said. “As His Grace commands my lord Hand, so shall I obey.”

 

“Excellent. Ser Kevan, you are to take four thousand horse and move north and west to harry Stannis’ flank along the Blackwater and south of it. Take Ser Amory, Ser Bronn, and Vargo Hoat with you.”

 

Those were the first of many commands given by Lord Tywin, a thousand men here, two thousand there, men to watch the Dornish Marches, men to raid the Stormlands. Commands to summon reinforcements from the mostly untapped levies of the southern Reach, which were ordered to gather at Highgarden under the command of Lord Mace. With the military business done for the day the various commanders were dismissed, leaving the Small Council alone in the Chamber of the Trees

 

With the lords and captains gone Lord Tywin’s face took on a more serious tone as he faced Littlefinger. “Lord Baelish, what is the condition of the treasury?”

 

Lord Baelish parted his hands apologetically causing Mathis to lean forward slightly. “I’m afraid,” Littlefinger began. “That the vast majority of the treasury was left in King’s Landing, we were far more concerned with speed and security than gold.”

 

“And rightly so,” said Lord Tywin. “The safety of the king is paramount. Still it leaves Stannis’ position even more secure,” he paused for a sip of wine, and Arbor gold from Mathis own stocks, before continuing. “Now the matter of Ser Gregor.”

 

“What of it, he died in the battle,” said Mathis. “Beaten down by a horde of northmen, or so the story goes.”

 

Lord Tywin grimaced. “The story is wrong, Grand Maester if you would.”

 

The old man leaned forward, putting his weight on the table. “After  Ser Gregor’s armour was removed it was brought to my attention that there was some kind of… substance, a film of powder caked to the inside of the padding of his helm. I conducted an examination so as to determine the nature of the substance and came to an unfortunate conclusion.”

 

 _Is he saying what I think he’s saying_?

 

“It appears,” continued to Pycelle. “That Ser Gregor was poisoned. Assassinated in fact. The poison is not one that is known to me by name, but its effects are insidious. It affects through contact with the skin and causes the heart to begin beating more and more rapidly until it explodes.”

 

Mathis raised a hand to his brow to rub away an impending headache. “Why would someone assassinate Ser Gregor? The man was a great warrior make no mistake but he was hardly a vital part of the war effort,” he waved his hand. “It makes no sense.”

 

“Unless,” added Littlefinger. “It is merely the first of many assassinations, perhaps a proof of concept that this method would work.”

 

“But why reveal it?” Asked Mathis. “Far better to wait and kill us all at once, if it had to be tested why not try it on some nameless footman. It would be all but unnoticed.”  
  
“Perhaps someone with a personal grudge against the late Ser Gregor. He did have very many enemies and very few friends,” the Spider interjected with a smirk.

 

“But how many of those enemies would have access to a poison that even the Grand Maester cannot identify,” countered Mathis. “It would have to be someone of considerable skill or someone with the gold and the ability to hire someone of considerable skill. Of which I can think of only one at the moment.”

 

“Stannis,” Littlefinger finished Mathis’ own thoughts.

 

“Lord Varys, have you any more to say on the matter? A potential culprit perhaps?” asked Lord Tywin.

 

“The Faceless Men of course come to mind immediately, but the costs involved would be extravagant. And to waste it on Ser Gregor, even if he was but one of many targets…” the eunuch shook his head. “It would not be worth the time to get word to the Faceless men and then arrange the immense payment they would require,” he spread his hands in apology. “The Sorrowful Men of Qarth are less expensive, but are even farther away. The war could be won or lost by the time. The only other option would be to have arranged for an assassination by a man of the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

Tywin frowned even more. “I want Ser Gregor’s squires put to the question. Find out who had access to his armour. And I want-”

 

Whatever Lord Tywin was going to say was interrupted as the door opened to reveal the eternally flustered Gavin, the maester of Goldengrove.

 

“My Lords,” he bowed holding a letter in his right hand. “A. Hmph. Umm. A message from Casterly Rock.”

 

“Give it here,” commanded Lord Tywin.

 

Maester Gavin glanced at Mathis who simply waved him along.

 

Lord Tywin ripped open the letter and began reading. As he read Mathis began to notice something odd. The corner of Lord Tywin’s mouth was twitching. It began slowly but it quickly progressed as muscles Mathis imagined had not been used in years, he could practically hear them creaking, set to work dragging Lord Tywin’s face into a very small but very real smile.

 

Mathis glanced around to take in the expressions of shock and mild horror from the rest of the Small Council. _Oh good it’s not just me_.

 

Tyrion

 

Time had no meaning in the black cells of the Red Keep, Tyrion didn’t know if had been condemned to them a few days or a few weeks ago. The only light came from the torches of the guards, who came only irregularly. The food, if it could be called that, was barely fit to eat a measly bowl of thin soup and a scrap of stale, and probably mouldy, bread. _More like flavoured water_ , _and flavoured with shit at that_ . Still Tyrion forced himself to drink the shitwater and eat the bread. _It’s better than starving_ … _I think_.

 

With nothing but darkness to see and naught but silence to hear Tyrion retreated into his own mind and without wine to drown his brain the thoughts couldn’t be stopped. An endless parade of images that all too often left him in tears. Tysha, Shae, and countless others some he’d kept for a few weeks or even months, others that had stayed only a night or an hour. _What will become of Shae_ , he wondered, _if it were anyone but Stannis she’d probably become a camp whore like she was before I found her_ . _But if Stannis has changed his mind on whores then I’m in a Lysene pleasure house_.

 

He remembered his family, his father, his sister, his brother, his aunt, his uncles, and even, for perhaps a moment, Tyrion thought he saw his mother’s face, gasping in pain, in fear, with love… He remembered the good times and the bad ones. Uncle Geri teaching him how to tumble and jape. Father putting a stop to it. He and Jaime playing hide-and-seek and come-into-my-castle. The time Cersei had locked him inside a hidden closet and left him there for almost two days.

 

He thought of Pod, his tongue tied squire, _I pray you lived boy_. Tyrion had lost track of him in the battle, and he hadn’t been seen since. Not even that day in court.

 

Long after Tyrion lost track of the days he heard the footsteps echo in the darkness, they stopped in front of his door. After what seemed a decade of darkness the torchlight that slipped in under to solid, iron studded, oak door, seemed to shine like the summer sun. When the door opened Tyrion covered his eyes as the light overwhelmed them. He felt a hand on his soiled doublet pulling him up and out of the cell. Tyrion half stumbled and was half pushed through the halls. As his eyes began to adjust to the light Tyrion was able to see that he wasn’t alone, there were dozens, mayhaps over a hundred, others being escorted out of the cells beneath the Red Keep.

 

At long last the darkness and flickering light of the torches gave way to true sunlight. Tyrion’s joy was tempered by the pain in his eyes and the foreboding sense that permeated the line of prisoners. Through the low halls of the Red Keep they were marched out into one of the great courtyards. With high walls on three sides and a tower on the fourth, there was no hope of escape even without taking into account the dragonmen and swordsmen that surrounded them.

 

Tyrion had been placed in a small area with a dozen other prisoners, including Lancel, all of them the lucky few who would be spending the rest of their lives dressed all in black at the Wall. From his place Tyrion could see the royal party atop a balcony in the overlooking tower. Stannis and his queen Selyse, their daughter Shireen. Davos the Onion Lord with some of the dragonmen captains. Lord Alester, Lord Eldon, and Lord Ardrian of Stannis’ Small Council. Ser Imry, Stannis’ goodbrother, and the captains of the Royal Fleet. And the Red Woman who Tyrion remembered from the session of court. _However long ago that was_.

 

And then the executions began. In groups of a dozen, names were called and then those men who bore the names were taken to the block. Some went without resistance, perhaps determined to meet the Stranger with dignity, while others were dragged screaming as they plead for mercy. Stannis did not give it. He stood silently, as strong as the dragon gargoyles of his castle, as over a hundred men met their fate. Most of the executed had been officers in the gold cloaks, a smaller number had been diehard loyalists to Joffrey. The last two to die were Ser Meryn and Ser Preston, who went silently to the block and died just as quietly.

 

As the bodies were cleared away, Tyrion’s own party of prisoners were taken by the dragonmen, and led out of the Red Keep. The gates opened to a cheering crowd of smallfolk. _I doubt they’re cheering for me_. Tyrion turned his neck and looked up to see the heads of the other, former, prisoners being spiked on the walls.

 

As the party made it’s way out of the Red Keep, the crowd parted and began to jeer and throw their refuse at the prisoners. Tyrion raised his shackled hands to stop the shit and rotted vegetables out of his face. He was only partially successful as some of the filth began to drip out of his hair and onto his face and down his back.

 

Thankfully this soon passed as the gold cloaks forced the crowd back and, more importantly, the party passed out of range as they moved farther from the Red Keep and deeper into the city. They were marched down Aegon’s High Hill, onto the Hook, down Muddy Way, and out the Mud Gate. Tyrion saw that Stannis had already put thousands of his men to work rebuilding the city walls. Through the freshly repaired Mud Gate they went and onto the docks.

 

Like the walls, there were work crews repairing and rebuilding the docks and piers to make them fit for the massive fleet that still occupied the Blackwater. Their guards forced them onto one of the less damaged piers and onto a ship, not a galley but an ungainly looking cog. Tyrion didn’t catch the name of the vessel. They were led beneath into the holds which in most cases Tyrion imagined would be filled with all manner of goods, wool, leather, wine, cloth, mayhaps even animals or grain. But the usual thin wood and canvas walls had been replaced with iron bars separating the lower deck into a number of small unpleasant cells. _Though they’re an improvement over the black cells_. They were rudely shoved inside, three to a cell, and then abandoned, save for a trio of sailors, armoured in leather and armed with wicked looking hatchets, who were playing a game of dice as they guarded the cells.

 

Tyrion found himself sharing his cell with a gold cloaks officer, a knight originally from the Westerlands named Ser Bartyn Morrin, and more interestingly with his cousin Lancel. Tyrion sat in a corner well away from his cellmates. Lancel sat in the opposite corner, his cousin started to speak but then went silent, preferring instead to stand and walk over to sit beside Tyrion. He was silent for a while before he found his voice.

 

“I was worried,” he said.

 

“About what?”

 

“That Stannis would have had you killed. Even after he swore-” Lancel cut himself off.

 

Tyrion, his curiosity aroused, turned to face his cousin. “Swore what?”

 

Lancel grimaced and closed his eyes. “He wanted me to confess. He wanted me to say those things about the Queen and myself, about King Robert. Those lies.”

 

“We both know they weren’t lies,” Tyrion whispered more to himself than for Lancel’s benefit.

 

Lancel was silent again. “I refused,” he said at last. “For the family I refused. But Lord Alester said that if I didn’t confess they’d kill you. So I…” Lancel trailed off.

 

“Why?” Tyrion asked. “Why do that?”

 

 _Why would Lancel care if I live or die_?

 

Lancel seemed confused his mouth gaping as he tried to find his words. “Be- Because we’re family,” he stuttered at last.

 

The world seemed to slow around Tyrion as he let those words sink in. “Yes we are... Thank you Lancel.”

 

 

Davos

 

A dozen swords and axes rose into the air and at a silent signal fell, and with a sickening thump a dozen more heads landed on the ground. Without wasting a moment the undergaolers of the Red Keep took the bodies by their feet and dragged them away, while others collected the heads and set about putting them on the spikes prepared on the walls. In seconds those dead men were replaced with living ones, who were soon executed in turn. And on it went as over a hundred men went to their fate.

 

Davos stood atop a wall of the courtyard, not far from the king, the Small Council, and the newly arrived Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen. Davos struggled to avoid shaking his head as he remembered the queen’s disapproval when she had discovered that the executions would be carried out by beheading, she had wanted the prisoners burned to death to appease her red god and the Red Woman who even now lurked not far from the Queen.

 

While King Stannis looked at the executions with his gritted teeth and stoney face, and Selyse sneered disapprovingly at the blood, it was Shireen who pulled on Davos’ heartstrings. The young girl had closed her eyes at the start and had tried to push her face into her mother’s skirts, only for both the king and the queen to sharply reprimand her. After that the princess watched with growing tears. _The poor girl will need to get used to this if she is to be queen some day_ . _But not too used I hope_.

 

The last prisoners to be escorted to the headsman’s block were the two former kingsguard Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Preston Greenfield. To their credit the two men went to their deaths with dignity staying silent and resolute as their crimes were announced and their heads removed. With that the executions were done and the remaining prisoners were escorted to the docks where they would take ship for the Wall later in the day. As the party surrounding the king began to disperse Davos caught a glimpse of Tyrion Lannister waddling in the small herd of prisoners before he left to follow his king.

 

With King Stannis and the Small council at their head they made their way from the courtyard into the heart of the Red Keep towards the chamber of the Small Council. As Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen, followed by Ser Rolland, Ser Timon, and Ser Emmon, departed for the royal chambers Davos let a small smile and a wink escape as he caught the eye of the still sniffling princess. Her face brightened slightly and she returned the wink with a wave only to be chastened by her mother.

 

Not long after they arrived at the Small Council chambers. Davos took up his position behind Ser Richard and Maester Cressen, and he was not alone in his loitering, one of the leaders of the Beikango, Ser Masuro, was standing beside Davos. Ser Imry stood opposite to Davos, behind his uncle Lord Alester and Lord Eldon Estermont. Ser Aemon, Davos’ former sergeant, stood guard with a squad of dragonmen. The only other person present who was not a member of the Small Council was Melisandre of Asshai who stood across the room from where she could face the king.

 

 _What has she done to earn a place here_?

 

The Small Council itself was seated around the table, Lord Alester Florent and Ser Richard Horpe flanked the king, while Lords Eldon Estermont and Ardrian Celtigar took their places farther down the table. A great map of Westeros, from the Wall to Dorne, covered the table. With the Small Council seated Lord Alester, the Hand of the King, cleared his throat. “With your permission Your Grace, shall we begin?”

 

Stannis nodded in acknowledgement.

 

Lord Alester nodded in return, nervously shuffling his hands on the table. “More reports have come concerning the surveys you commanded, the locations of brimstone and saltpetre in the lands of most every great lord of the Stormlands.”

 

“Most?”

 

Lord Alester grimaced. “Lord Tarth is being recalcitrant.”

 

“Inform Lord Tarth that continued delays will not go unpunished. I will have these surveys done. The surveys are to continue and be expanded to the Crownlands as well. Have the reports copied and given to Lord Celtigar and Lord Seaworth. How grievous were the casualties in the battle?”

 

Lord Alester straightened. “Casualties were rather light all things considered a few hundred dead and a thousand injured at the worst. Maester Cressen if you would,” Lord Alester gestured at the white haired and chained man.

 

“Most of the injured soldiers should recover in a few months time at most, Your Grace. The smallfolk who rose in your name were more gravely hurt.”

 

“How many of them fell?” Asked the king.

 

“Near a half a thousand dead, Your Grace. Over twice that injured.”

 

“See that they are taken care of. I will not have men say I care nothing for those who fight in my name. What damage was done to the city?”

 

“Little enough,” answered Lord Celtigar. “Mostly buildings damaged by errant dragonfire, the fight was short enough that the men had little time to get their blood up. And those that did were stopped by their fellows, as per your commands, Your Grace.”

 

“And the fleet?”

 

“Almost undamaged, Your Grace,” the elderly Lord Eldon spoke slowly. “The Swordfish took some damage when it’s ram became stuck in sinking ship, but nothing a few days in port will not be able to repair.”

 

“I want the fleet ready to make sail inside the week. Three ships to escort the prisoners to the Wall, a dozen more to carry my envoys to the Vale and to Dorne. Three to Braavos to seek an audience with the Sealord and a representative of the Iron Bank to come back with them to King’s Landing. Another dozen more to go to each of the Free Cities, let Essos know that there is only one True King of Westeros,” Stannis turned his head slightly. “Ser Robar.”

 

The kingsguard knight stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace?”

 

“I would have you go to the Vale, to speak with your lord father and his fellow lords. Sway them to my cause,” the king swept a letter from the table and reached out to give it to Ser Robar. “Give that to your lord father, if he would come to King’s Landing I would make him my Master of Laws.”

 

After a short pause Ser Robar accepted the letter. “When would you have me depart, Your Grace?”

 

“With the tide, Ser. You are dismissed, see to your quarters, Captain Dale Seaworth will be waiting for you at the docks.” Stannis turned his attentions back to the Small Council. “The rest of the fleet under Lord Captain Imry will guard the Blackwater both the river and the bay from attack.” The man in question bowed as the king mentioned his name.

 

Seemingly ignoring Ser Imry King Stannis turned towards his Master of Coin. “Lord Ardrian, how fares the treasury?”

 

The Lord of Claw Isle shifted in his seat. “It seems the usurper emptied much of the treasury before he fled, Your Grace. Though there still remains near a hundred thousand gold dragons. The books left by Lord Baelish are difficult to understand, he seems to write in some kind of code, and there are several books missing.”

 

“Check the brothels, Lord Baelish,” the king almost spat out the former Master of Coin’s name. “Owns most of the brothels in the city and he keeps offices in the finer ones, he often did his work there. Search them, shut them down, and seize what funds remain. Use your own men for this, I don’t trust the gold cloaks just yet.”

 

“Yes, Your Grace.”

 

“Use the funds to pay for the repairs of the walls and to pay the soldiers. Lord Alester, have the host prepare to move out. We cannot rest, not after the Feast for Crows. The Reach must be brought to heel and Robb Stark’s defeat leaves the Riverlands and the North open for attack.”

 

“Your Grace,” said Lord Alester. “Can we spare the troops to invest in such an attack? Lord Bolton maintains a not unformidable force at Harrenhal and the Ironmen reign over half the North.”

 

“That is not the attack I had in mind. From Dragonstone I sent word that I was the One True King, I think it time that I remind them of this,” Stannis held up a finger. “These Northmen and Riverlords shall have one chance to swear their fealty, but one more. After that any who resist will be destroyed. Maester Cressen, you will copy this letter and send it to every major castle in the Riverlands and the North.”

 

With a creased and wrinkled hand Maester Cressen took the letter. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

 

With that Stannis turned his attentions to the map. “Bitterbridge must be held,” he declared. “And the usurper must be beaten. Every moment we waste gives Lord Tywin more time to gather the levies of the Reach to his banner. We must strike hard and swift.”

 

The King traced the line of the Mander with his finger. “From Bitterbridge we must strike at Longtable, then Cider Hall and Ashford, and lastly at Highgarden itself. We will cut the Reach in two and the army will do so with dragons at it’s head,” the king turned his attention to Davos. “Your report, my lord.”

 

Davos took a breath to calm himself. “Six hundred more men trained in the use of hand-dragons arrived from Dragonstone two days past. Though there are only enough weapons to equip fifty of them. They brought another five hundred barrels of black powder with them.”

 

Stannis nodded once and glanced at Ser Masuro from the corner of his eye. “The production of more dragons is to be a priority.”

 

“An excellent idea, Your Grace. Why there are some excellent locations near Brightwater,” began Lord Alester only to be interrupted by the king.

 

“The smithing of dragons and mixing of blackpowder will be kept in King’s Landing and Dragonstone,” he waved to Ser Aemon. “Send them in.”

 

With a bow and a grunt Ser Aemon had his men open the door and usher in a crowd of men. Davos recognized a few of them as smiths, including Tobho Mott and Ironbelly. The others were obvious on sight as the Wisdoms of the Alchemist’s Guild. The last group took Davos a few moments to recognize as the masters of the Bellmaker’s Guild. As one the assembled masters and wisdoms knelt before the king.

 

“Rise,” said Stannis, he motioned to Devan and Davos’ son quickly walked forward from his place behind the king and took a position not not far from the guilds, sheaves of parchment in his hands. He waited as the king continued to address the guilds. “I have summoned you all here for a single purpose. You have all heard or seen the power of the new weapons in my armies, the dragons. You all have a part to play in building them. The barrels and locks of iron for the hand-dragons,” several pieces of parchment were removed from the sheaf and given to the smith Ironbelly. “Casting the great barrels of the larger dragons,” another few parchments were given to a master of the Bellmakers. “And crafting the blackpowder,” the final pieces of parchment were given to one of the wisdoms.

 

The masters gathered around to look at what was written on the parchments. After a few minutes Tobho Mott stepped forward and bowed. “Your Grace, this is a far greater task than we had ever dreamed you could have wanted,” and then, more gravely. “It will be many months before the proper tools can be made and the proper techniques mastered.”

 

Stannis waved a hand. “There is a person of some skill who can aid you, Ser Masuro will take you to her manse. Master Mott stay a moment.”

 

At Stannis’ word the Beikango knight bowed and led the bewildered group guild masters out of the small council chamber, save for an even more bewildered Tobho Mott, who waited as Devan ran into a small side chamber. Devan returned carrying a large case, which he placed on a table.

 

“When last we met,” Stannis began. “I spoke to you of your apprentice, Gendry. What has happened to him.”

 

Tobho Mott shifted his feet. “After His Grace, your brother, passed there was rumour of many attacks on black-haired children, I umm pressured Gendry to join the Night’s Watch. Where he went from there I know not.”

 

Stannis nodded. “I see. Now for the other matter,” he opened the case. Inside was the shattered pieces of a greatsword, a sword with distinct dark ripples, and a pommel in the shape of a heart.

 

 _Heartsbane_.

 

Tobho Mott stepped forward and took up a piece of the ancestral sword of House Tarly.

 

“Master Mott,” began the king. “I would have you reforge the blade into something deserving of House Baratheon.”

 

“Of course, Your Grace. I will do nothing else until it is finished.”

 

“Very good you are dismissed.”

 

Tobho Mott took the case and Heartsbane and left. From there the Small Council moved on to less unusual matters.

 

Though Davos had spent little time at court during the reign of King Robert, from what he remembered the council meetings of King Stannis’ elder brother had rarely lasted more than an hour. King Stannis’ council lasted for more than eight. It seemed the king desired to know every detail of the goings on of his kingdom. Over a hundred messengers from lords and scouts from along the Blackwater, and farther afield, came and went, and twice that many messages from ravens. Stannis poured over every report and every message, making notes as he went and asking each man a dozen questions. At long last they were freed from the council, and Davos walked on exhausted legs and aching feet to his own chambers for the night.

 

From sleep Davos was woken by a panicked knocking at his door. “Come in.”

 

It was Devan who entered the room. “Thank the gods your safe!” Davos’ son ran across the room and hugged him.

 

“Safe?” Davos asked. “Safe from what? What’s happening?”

 

“Someone tried to kill the king. I. I was worried they might have tried to kill you as well.” Devan sniffed, trying to keep tears from falling.

 

Davos pulled his son into a tighter hug. “It’s okay lad. It’s okay. I’m fine. Now,” Davos calm tone grew more serious. “Take me to the king.”

 

Devan did as he was bid, leading Davos through the halls of the Red Keep and to the Royal Chambers. Davos had to push his way through the lines of guards to get to the king. Devan being the king’s squire helped with that. At last Davos saw his king, he was speaking with Ser Richard, who cradled an unloaded crossbow in his arms, and the rest of the Kingsguard. One of whom, Ser Rolland, had a dagger at the throat of a young boy. King Stannis was unhurt. But the same could not be said of Melisandre of Asshai who was sitting in a chair as Maester Cressen tended to a crossbow bolt that was stuck high in her thigh.

 

The King was saying. “-Take the boy to the dungeons and make him speak,” he glanced to the side. “Lord Seaworth.”

 

Davos bowed. “Your Grace, what has happened?”

 

“The boy tried to kill me. He came out of the walls with a crossbow and would have killed me as I slept,” he turned and ground his teeth. “But... the Lady Melisandre intervened.”

 

The Red Woman nodded her head in acknowledgment of the king’s words. “It was the Lord of Light intervened, I am merely a servant of Him and of Your Grace,” She turned her gaze to the would be assassin. “It is no use tormenting the boy, he will not speak Your Grace. He cannot, his tongue was taken by a Spider.”

 

Stannis went still a moment. “Ser Rolland, open his mouth.”

 

With a grunt the Bastard of Nightsong forced the struggling boy’s mouth open. “She has the right of it, Your Grace.”

 

 _How could she know that_?

 

If anyone else had the same question they did not have a chance to ask for the Red Woman continued. “The fires of the Lord of Light reveal many things to those who know how to look.”

 

Stannis turned away from the Red Woman clenching his teeth so hard Davos thought they might shatter. “Ser Rolland take the boy to the dungeons. Lord Alester, organize your men I want every room in the Red Keep searched for secret passages, and I want those passages mapped, have every servant in the Red Keep taken prisoner, then have them put to the question. The loyal must be separated from the treacherous. And Ser Timon... you will escort my Mistress of Whispers to Maester Cressen’s chambers.”

 

As men went to do King Stannis’ commands the Red Woman smiled and Davos shivered.

 

 

Catelyn

 

 _Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth_ , Catelyn thought. _House Tully’s strength is the river and it is to the river we return_.

 

They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, he was clad in shining silver armor, his cloak was spread beneath him, rippling blue and red, and his surcoat was divided blue and red as well. A trout, scaled in silver and bronze, crowned the greathelm they placed beside his head. On his chest they placed a painted wooden sword, his fingers curled about its hilt. His wasted hands were hidden within mail gauntlets, which made him look strong again. To his left was a great shield of oak and iron and on the right his hunting horn. The rest of the boat was filled with driftwood, kindling, scraps of parchment, and stones to make it heavy in the water. The leaping trout of Riverrun flew from the prow.

 

Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in honor of the seven faces of god. Men who had loyally served Hoster for years, in other times it might have been his lords who pushed Hoster into the river. But they were fighting in the south, with Robb, none of the great houses of the Riverlands were present.

 

The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Utherydes Wayn, an old gaunt man, was was gasping for breath as they shoved the boat out into the current. Ser Robin Ryger and Ser Desmond Grell, who had both served Hoster for years, were at the prow, standing chest deep in the river to guide the boat on its way.

 

Catelyn watched from the battlements, waiting and watching as she had waited and watched so many times before. Beneath her, the swift wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the broad Red Fork, it's blue-white current churning the muddy red-brown flow of the greater river. A thick morning mist hung over the water like a blanket of smoke in the light of dawn. It called to mind memories of mornings from long ago, when her mother and father yet lived.

 

 _Bran and Rickon will be waiting for him_ , Catelyn thought sadly, _as I once waited for him_. The slim boat drifted out from under the red stone arch of the Water Gate, picking up speed as it was caught in the headlong rush of the Tumblestone and pushed out into the tumult where the two rivers met. As the boat emerged from beneath the high sheltering walls of the castle, its square sail filled with wind, and Catelyn saw sunlight flashing on her father's helm. The rudder held true and the boat sailed serenely down the center of the channel, into the rising sun.

 

Beside her Edmure, Lord Edmure now in truth, stood with a bow in hand. _And how long will that take to grow used to_? He nocked an arrow to his bowstring, his squire held a brand to its point, and Edmure waited until the flame caught, then lifted the great bow, drew the string to his ear, and let loose. With a deep thrum, the arrow sped upward. Catelyn followed its flight with her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the water with a soft hiss, well astern of Lord Hoster's boat.

 

Edmure cursed softly. "The wind," he said, pulling a second arrow. "Again." The brand kissed the oil-soaked rag behind the arrowhead, the flames went licking up, Edmure lifted, pulled, and released. High and far the arrow flew almost vanishing in the mist above them before returning to sight. _Too far_ . It vanished in the river a dozen yards beyond the boat, its flames winking out instantly. A flush was creeping up Edmure's neck, red as his beard. "Once more," he commanded, taking a third arrow from the quiver. _He is as tight as his bowstring_. She gazed concernedly at her brother.

 

"I can do it," Edmure insisted to himself and to her. He let them light the arrow, jerked the bow up, took a deep breath, drew back the arrow. For a long moment he seemed to hesitate while the fire crept up the shaft, crackling. Finally he released. The arrow flashed up and up, and finally curved down again, falling, falling.... and hissing past the billowing sail.

 

A narrow miss, no more than a handspan, and yet a miss. "The Others take it!" her brother swore. The boat was almost out of range, drifting in and out among the river mists. From where she sat in her chair Catelyn saw her brother wipe tears from the corner of his eyes, and with a grunt he took aim with the longbow for a fourth time. This time his aim was true the flaming arrow struck the bed of the boat and in seconds the fire consumed Hoster Tully.

 

Catelyn reached out blindly for her brother's hand, but Edmure had moved away, to stand alone on the highest point of the battlements. She let her hand fall to rest on her useless legs. Without a word Septa Gisella pushed the wheeled chair next to her brother. Together they watched the little fire grow smaller as the burning boat receded in the distance.

 

And then it was gone... drifting downriver still, perhaps, or broken up and sinking. The weight of his armor would carry Lord Hoster down to rest in the soft mud of the riverbed, in the watery halls where the Tullys held eternal court, with schools of fish their last attendants.

 

No sooner had the burning boat vanished from their sight than Edmure walked off. Catelyn would have liked to embrace him, if only for a moment; to sit for an hour or a night or the turn of a moon to speak of the dead and mourn. Yet she knew as well as he that this was not the time. Edmure was the Lord of Riverrun now, and his knights were falling in around him, murmuring condolences and promises of fealty, walling him off from something as small as a sister's grief. Edmure listened, hearing none of the words.

 

Catelyn closed her eyes as the crowd of mourners began to disperse and head towards the great hall of Riverrun where the mourning would continue. “Take me to my bedchamber,” she commanded of Septa Gisella who did as she was bid.

 

Hours later, she was sewing in her bedchamber when her brother’s young, round faced, and freckled squire came running. _Summons for supper_?

 

“The king has returned,” he gasped.

 

“Take me too him.”

 

Robb was asleep by the time Catelyn was brought to him. Her son was in bed his head wrapped in bandages, and Maester Vyman at his side tending at a stump, which was all that remained of Robb’s right arm. Septa Gisella pushed Catelyn so she was next to the bed, as Maester Vyman left carrying bandages stained with pus and blood.

 

The Maester stopped her from reaching for him. “Let him rest. He has had too much milk of the poppy of late,” Vyman let a chiding tone enter his voice as he glanced at the lords. “Only true rest will help his fever now.”

 

“Oh gods… What has happened to you my son?”

 

“The Mountain.” It was Lord Jonos Bracken who answered. Catelyn had not noticed him in the room. With her attention drawn from Robb she saw the other lords and knights present, Black Walder Frey, Lady Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover, and of course her brother. She looked around, expecting to see others.

 

“Where is Lord Jon?” She asked. “Where is Lord Karstark, Lord Blackwood, or the Vances?”

 

“Dead,” said Lady Maege. “The Greatjon and the Smalljon are both dead, along with my Dacey.” Maege’s voice was filled with barely controlled rage.

 

“And Lord Tytos has turned traitor,” sneared Lord Jonos. “I warned you all, you can’t trust the Blackwoods, treachery is in their blood.”

 

“Both of the Vances have bent the knee as well.”

 

“Bent the knee,” echoed Catelyn. “To who?”

 

Black Walder answered. “Joffrey,” he spat. “Lord Tywin attacked us. There was a battle and we lost. Badly and the flight that followed was near as bad. Lannister raiders and Dondarrion’s bandits behind every tree. It was all we could do to escape with our lives and the king’s. Most of the host is dead or fled, barely a quarter has returned.”

 

“And my uncle?”

 

“Dead,” said Edmure, his voice deadly quiet. “Grey Wind as well.”

 

Catelyn felt a hitch in her chest as she heard a small sob. She turned in her chair to see Robb slowly blinking his way to consciousness. At once the room was filled by the shouts of lords and knights, each trying to speak over the other.

 

Robb spasmed in his bed, it took Catelyn a moment to realise that he had tried to slam his fist against the bed only to forget that he no longer had a right arm.

 

Robb seemed to realise it at the same time. “Wine,” he growled at a servant.

 

“Robb,” Catelyn said, reaching out to rub his cheek, but with a wolflike snarl her son pulled away from her. He breathed once and reached for a freshly filled goblet, which he soon drained.

 

He held out the goblet for more wine. “Get out!” Robb shouted. “All of you! GO!”

 

“Robb please,” Catelyn pleaded.

 

“That means you as well,” he turned his back to her.

 

“Come Cat, let’s go.” Edmure took her chair and wheeled it, and her, out of the chambers despite her protests. Catelyn turned to see Robb draining another full goblet. Edmure returned her to her bedchamber and aided Septa Gisella in moving her into her bed, he was about to sit next to her but a boy she didn’t recognize came to bring Edmure to a council. It seemed Robb had changed his mind about being alone.

 

Late in the night Edmure came to her again. He was already deep his cups as he stumbled into her bedchamber, a jug of wine in his hand. He sat on the edge of her bed and began to weep his regrets about their father. "I shouldn’t have gone out and whored. I should have been with him, as you were, I should have been a better son," he said. "Did he speak of me at the end? Tell me true, Cat. Did he ask for me? Did he ask of me?"

 

Catelyn closed her eyes to ward against her own tears. “No,” she said. “He kept saying Tansy near the end, he was calling for her. Does that name mean anything to you?”

 

Edmure laughed hollowly. “No,” he wiped tears from his eyes. “Mayhaps Uncle Brynden would know who Tansy was… We could ask him if he wasn’t dead. If father wasn’t dead.”

 

“Maester Vyman thought it might be the name of a lowborn mistress.”

 

“Who cares?” Edmure shouted. “He’s dead! It doesn’t matter anymore!” He threw his empty jug at the wall. It shattered sending shards of pottery flying. His eyes dropped and Edmure stared at his feet and took a breath. “Robb is going to march to leave for Harrenhal tomorrow. With what remains of his Northerners.”

 

“For what purpose?”

 

“I don’t know. He spent half the council drinking wine laced with milk of the poppy and staring into space, like nothing was real to him. The other half he spent yelling like a madman. But I think he means run north with his tail between his legs.”

 

“Edmure! You should not say such things.”

 

“I shouldn’t speak the truth you mean,” he laughed bitterly. “Robb took near seventeen thousand men south, and he’s come back with barely three thousand. Heh. And most of them Freys at that. He’s wasted our strength, what’s left of it. He let the Riverlands burn, and now he’s abandoning them!” Edmure was shouting at the end.

 

“You should not speak of your liege lord, your nephew, in such a manner!” Catelyn shouted back.

 

“He’s not my liege!” There was silence as Catelyn stared at her brother in shock. Edmure closed his eyes and held his head in his hand. “Not for long anyway,” Edmure said numbly, letting a letter slip through his fingers and fall the the ground. “I’m sorry Cat. But for my people... for the Riverlands… I’m going to bend my knee to Stannis.”

 

“You?” Catelyn was stunned. “What?”

 

Edmure let out a bitter chuckle. “I’m taking your advice. Kneel to Stannis, it’s what you said to me. To Uncle Brynden. To Robb. Well it’s too late for one and the other is too drunk from wine and maddened by pain and poppy to see sense. So I’ll do it.” Edmure picked up the letter. “An offer from Stannis,” Edmure held up the letter to read it. “One last chance to bend the knee,” he quoted. “Those who don’t… will be destroyed.”

 

“Does… Does Robb know?”

 

Edmure shook his head. “No, and he won’t. Not until he’s left Riverrun at least when he learns that I’m not the only one to have received one of these,” he waved the letter. “Please don’t tell him. Not yet at least. Mayhaps he’ll see sense later. Mayhaps you can convince him to bend the knee.”

 

“I pray I can,” Catelyn said, remembering how Robb had pulled away, how he’d seemed almost… scared, like a cornered animal. _I pray I can_.


	9. Interlude 1

**King on the Iron Throne:** Stannis Baratheon King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm  
**Princess of Dragonstone:** Shireen Baratheon  
**Queen on the Iron Throne:** Selyse Florent  
**Small Council  
Hand of the King: ** Lord Alester Florent  
**Master of Coin:** Lord Ardrian Celtigar  
**Master of Laws:** Vacant  
Lord Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing: Ser Jacelyn Bywater  
**Master of Whispers:** Melisandre of Asshai  
**Master of Ships:** Lord Eldon Estermont  
**Grand Maester:** Vacant (Duties performed by Maester Cressen)  
**Lords Paramount  
Lord of the North:** Vacant (House Stark attainted)  
**Lord of Reach:** Lord Alester Florent  
**Lord of the Stormlands:** Dissolved, Storm's End is to be a royal fief  
**Lord of the Westerlands:** Vacant (House Lannister attainted)  
**Lord of the Riverlands:** Lord Edmure Tully  
**Lord of the Vale:** Lord Robert Arryn  
**Lord of the Iron Islands:** Vacant (House Greyjoy attainted)  
**Prince of Dorne:** Prince Doran Martell  
**Kingsguard:**  
Lord Commander: Ser Richard Horpe  
Ser Rolland Storm  
Ser Robar Royce  
Ser Timon the Scrapesword  
Ser Boros Rambton  
Ser Emmon Cuy  
Ser Andrew Estermont

 

 **The King in the West:** Joffrey Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Betrothed to Margaery Tyrell.  
**Heir Apparent:** Tommen Baratheon. Betrothed to Elinor Rowan.  
****The Queen Regent:**** Queen Cersei  
****Small Council  
Hand of the King:**** Lord Tywin Lannister  
****Master of Coin:**** Lord Petyr Baelish  
****Master of Laws:**** Lord Mathis Rowan  
****Master of Whispers:**** Lord Varys  
****Master of Ships:**** Vacant  
****Grand Maester:**** Pycelle  
****Lords Paramount  
Lord of the North:**** Vacant (House Stark attainted)  
****Lord of Reach:**** Lord Mace Tyrell  
****Lord of the Stormlands:**** Vacant (Stannis Baratheon attainted)  
****Lord of the Westerlands:**** Lord Tywin Lannister  
****Lord of the Riverlands:**** Vacant (House Tully attainted)  
****Lord of the Vale:**** Lord Robert Arryn  
****Lord of the Iron Islands:**** Vacant (House Greyjoy attainted)  
****Prince of Dorne:**** Prince Doran Martell  
****Kingsguard:****  
Lord Commander: Ser Jaime Lannister (imprisoned at Riverrun)  
Sandor Clegane  
Ser Mandon Moore  
Ser Boros Blount  
Ser Arys Oakheart (in Dorne with Princess Myrcella)  
Vacant  
Vacant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has stayed with the Guns of Dragonstone this far, and here's to many more updates.


	10. Chapter 9 (Daven, Griff, Skahaz, Ajio)

Daven

 

Lannisport was always busy, with a quarter of a million people within it’s walls it couldn’t be otherwise. Daven scratched his chin, his beard still itched even after a year of growth, the southerners were still in port trading for… well anything really.  _ It might be best to find out what they’re buying the most of _ , _ for when they return _ . The southerners had already turned a profit, Daven was sure of that, with Lord Tywin’s blessing Daven had opened the treasury of Casterly Rock and had flooded their ships with gold in exchange for their strange weapons that spewed fire and death, the dragons, and for men to stay and teach the growing army encamped between Casterly Rock and Lannisport in how to use them. At first they had refused to part with very many of their weapons or to stay and train the Lannister soldiers. But… the gold of House Lannister proved persuasive, as it always did. A single ship was all that would be returning to their homeland far to the south, and their captain had promised to send word of the potential for wealth to be made in Lannisport.

 

Daven let his hand wander to his hip to the small dragon the southerners had gifted him, not so large as those the common men would wield, but instead suitable for use in one handed on horseback. There had been half a dozen different kinds of dragon in their holds, great massive ones that shot balls the size of a head, which they had been the most disinclined to part with, that they called  _ taisho _ . The smaller ones, that were called  _ juki  _ by the southerners, had come at far less cost. Even though Daven knew their proper names he still preferred to call them dragons, as they had been named in reports from the east. _ Easier to say, and easier to understand _ . He had bought seven hundred of the hand-dragons and a score of the dragons from the nine ships that had come to Lannisport, and now just as many men were training outside the city walls.

 

As Daven watched the last of the southerners boarded their ships and began to depart, heading home with their hull full of gold. “Hopefully they’ll be hungry for more gold come next year,” Daven japed. _ Hopefully the war will be won and done come next year _ . The first of their ships began to pull away from the long stone piers. “Let’s go,” with a twist of his reins Daven led his horse, and his guard, away from the harbour and out of Lannisport. The city watch with their lion helms and crimson cloaks made passage for them, through the crowded and clean cobbled streets.

 

It was not long before they passed beyond the walls. The gilded and iron reinforced gates opened, allowing Daven and his guard to pass beneath the gates, under the gaping jaws of lion statuets that framed the murderholes, which would pour boiling water, hot sand, or even oil on any invaders.  _ Invaders from the land at least _ , Daven thought remembering the Greyjoy Rebellion.

 

Beyond the walls the army was mustered. The remnants of Oxcross and Riverrun, sellswords and freeriders and hedge knights, and the newly raised levies of the West. Near six thousand men all told had been gathered in the shadow of Casterly Rock. Their camp was well defended, a deep ditch lined with spikes backed by an earthen and wood palisade enveloped the camp. The tents were placed in a grid, with broad lanes and streets between them, guards with pike and crossbow patrolled the edges, watchtowers rose every hundred feet holding nests of archers.

 

Against the east palisade a thick wall of earth had been set up to absorb the bullets shot by the dragonmen as they practiced for hours at a time. Wooden targets in the shape of men had been placed there on the first day, but they had been so quickly destroyed by the dragonfire that replacements had not been made since.

 

As Daven approached the dragonmen released a deafening volley then bent to reload, as the southerners and sergeants watched their efforts through the smoke, recording how long it took the men to reload. Daven had promised a reward of five gold dragons to the man who could reload the quickest each day. As of the moment the record was about two and thirty seconds.

 

“How are they doing today?” Daven shouted his question at Ser Murton Lannys, the knight placed in command of the dragonmen.

 

“A new record Ser. ” Ser Murton pointed at a gangly looking youth with a freckled and pimpled face. “Young Brus there reloaded in only eight and twenty seconds.”

 

“Hah!” Daven laughed. “Good show boy! Good show the lot of you!” Daven reached into his coin purse, but after a moment’s hesitation instead pulled the whole purse from his belt. He tossed it at Ser Muton and shouted. “Five dragons to Young Brus, the rest to be spread amongst the men.”

 

The dragonmen cheered at that, and Daven laughed and wagged a chiding finger at them. “Now boys don’t go spending it all on wine and women you have your eternal souls to consider,” his voice dripped with sarcasm and mock piety. The dragonmen laughed and cheered even harder after that and Daven laughed with them as he turned his horse to leave the camp and return to Casterly Rock. 

 

His laughter quieted as the afternoon sun shined upon the Rock, turning the brown stones into the crimson and gold House Lannister had taken for it’s colours. After all these years seeing Casterly Rock standing strong in the sun still enraptured him. The Lion’s Mouth opened before him, a great cavern more than two hundred feet high, the steps which lead to it were wide enough for twenty men to ride stirrup to stirrup. Far above them tunnels and chambers in the ceiling and the walls hid behind murder holes and arrow slits from which death would come to any invader. Within the cavern was the gate a massive piece of stone carved from the rock itself, siege ladders couldn’t overcome it, for there were no walls, only a battering ram could break through the gates, and good fortune to any who would try to bring such a massive engine over the steep stairs.

 

It was no wonder that Casterly Rock had never fallen to siege or storm, even Visenya Targaryen was said to have dreaded trying to take the Rock with dragonfire.  _ Though _ , thought Daven,  _ these new dragons could prove more difficult to defend against _ ,  _ it’s a straight shot at the gates _ .

 

The gates in question opened as he approached, letting him enter the lower bailey. Daven dismounted lending his reins to a squire as he marched onwards and deeper into the mountain. Endless stairs brought him to the chambers set aside for his own family, his sisters Cerenna and Myrielle, his mother Myranda, and, until his death, his Ser Stafford Lannister. They were three levels below the rooms of Lord Tywin and the lord’s own children.

 

He entered via the hall into the small dining hall that serviced their family, Cerenna and Myrielle were having a small luncheon, their mother was not to be seen. Daven shrugged out of his heavy cloak and mantle, shook off his boots and tucked them into an alcove. He stretched his aching feet and joined his sisters.

 

“Where’s mother?” He asked of his sisters.

 

“With Maester Creylen,” Myreille answered. “Tending to the injured.”

 

Daven shook his head. “We need to get her away from here, there’s too much of father here. Mother will never recover so long as she remains at Casterly Rock.”

 

“Father was her whole world,” Cerenna said. “I think no matter what happens she’ll not recover. Not completely at least.”

 

“Did she at least remember to eat today?”

 

“She had some bread and cheese with her watered wine.”

 

“Hmmm, that’s an improvement I suppose.”

 

Since their father had died, their mother had put upon a strong face, but her grief came out in other ways. She often forgot to eat for she kept herself so busy, as if if she kept herself from thinking of father’s death than he wasn’t really dead.

 

“What’s that,” Daven asked noticing for the first time a letter on the table.

 

Cerenna and Myrielle grinned at each other.  _ Not good _ . 

 

“A raven came from Goldengrove, with a letter from Lord Tywin,” Cerenna answered.

 

“You’re to bring the army into the Reach and join him at Goldengrove,” continued Myrielle.

 

“You’re both still smiling so I imagine there’s more.”

 

“And while you're at Goldengrove you will attend a very important wedding,” Myrielle spoke over Cerenna’s barely controlled giggling.

 

“Is King Joffrey wedding Lady Margaery so soon?”

 

“Oh no,” said Cerenna as she slid the letter to him. “It’s not the king’s wedding, it’s yours.”

Griff

 

A century past, a victorious Braavos had forbidden the Pentoshi from owning or selling slaves within Pentos. And so by law and by treaty there were no slaves in Pentos, but for every free man, Griff saw three more with a collar around their necks. In the narrow streets of Pentos Griff rode his spotted, swaybacked mare through the markets filled with the scents of queer spices from the east, the sight of goods from north, east, west, and south. The boy and Ser Rolly Duckfield did likewise, while Haldon and Lemore followed them inside a wagon.

 

They had come to Pentos from the safety of the Rhoyne through fields of poppies, flax, and cotton, where laboured a small horde of slaves beneath the whips of their masters.  _ I wonder if they’ve heard yet about Astapor _ ? Griff doubted it, he himself had only heard because the cheesemonger had deigned to tell him in the letter he had sent, when Griff had been summoned to Pentos. The fat man had been concerned, Daenerys was not going where the plan required her to go.  _ I should think he’d be used to that by now _ ,  _ when have his plans ever gone right _ . First it was supposed to be Prince Viserys with fifty thousand Dothraki Screamers, then Daenerys with three dragons.  _ Now what _ ?  _ Is the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms supposed to invade with only the Golden Company at his back _ ?  _ If even half of what I’ve heard of Storm’s End and King’s Landing is true than it would be a disaster worse than the War of the Usurper _ .

 

Eventually the narrow streets of the markets gave way to the broad avenues of the wealthy. The great walls enclosed the massive manses and gardens of the wealthy and Illyrio Mopatis’ manse was one of the largest in the city, a great behemoth of smooth white stone, curved roofs covered in painted tiles, with majestic fountains and statues in every courtyard. Servants,  _ slaves _ , ran out to meet them. They took the horses into the stable and led Young Griff, Ser Rolly, Haldon and Lemore into the manse, likely to an a set of outrageously decorated rooms. 

 

Another servant,  _ slave _ , approached Griff. “The master asks that you meet with him. This one will lead you to him.”

 

Griff grunted his assent and began to follow the slave, deep into the halls of the manse. The servant led him through a maze of corridors decorated with tapestries, Myrish carpets, statues, and other gaudiness, into another courtyard where Illyrio Mopatis lounged upon a couch like a great flabby whale, watching birds nibble at seeds in the grass, while he himself chewed on pieces of roasted and glazed chicken.

 

Griff took a seat in the chair that had been set aside for him, to the left of Mopatis, and waited for the fat man to lift his attentions from the birds, both cooked and alive.

 

Mopatis gave a small burp, which he covered with surprising grace, with the back of his hand. He set the plate on one of the small tables and, with the aid of a slave, sat up to look directly at Griff.

 

“Has the plan has changed again?” Griff asked.

 

Illyrio nodded. “It has. On the Rhoyne, did you hear tell of foreigners from the south?”

 

“Summer Islanders?” Griff shrugged. “Nothing of particular note.”

 

“Hmph, news travels fast, but not that fast it seems. You’ve heard about Storm’s End no doubt.”

 

“Aye, and King’s Landing too. These new weapons that Lord Stannis has...”

 

“What have you heard of them? These weapons?”

 

“That they are weapons of smoke and fire, that they kill without honour, without skill.”

 

“That they can destroy armies and walls within minutes,” interrupted Illyrio. “What do you think of that?”

 

“If these weapons, these… dragons can bring a man power and victory,” he paused for a few seconds, thinking for a moment of Stony Sept and the Battle of the Bells. “I think one should use whatever means are available to win for victory wipes away all dishonour.”

 

Illyrio smiled. “Strangers have come to our shores, and they bring their weapons that some already call dragons for they are so terrible. You’re right I think, ‘victory wipes away all dishonour’,” he chortled and waved a hand sending a slave scurrying into a nearby chamber. “And if these weapons are truly as terrible as some claim, then perhaps they are worthy of being called dragons, and if that is the case.” The slave returned now carrying what looked like a long wood and metal club. “Then should it not be House Targaryen that uses them to their fullest potential?”

 

The slave knelt before him, holding up the club… the dragon. He glanced at the smirking visage of Illyrio, who was smiling like a cat behind his pointed yellow beard. Griff rose from the chair and took up the dragon. He smiled and turned to Illyria. “What would you have me do?”

 

“I have purchased many of these weapons, and my agents in the other Free Cities are doing the same. The Golden Company shall be the spearhead of King Aegon’s invasion to reclaim his throne, that part of the plan has not changed, but now they will do so armed with dragons.”

 

“And Princess Daenerys? She’s in Slaver’s Bay is she not?”

 

Illyrio frowned. “She is, last I heard she was marching on Yunkai, and that Yunkai and Meereen were gathering sellswords. How well sellswords and slaves will fare against Unsullied and dragons I’m sure you don’t need an explanation.”

 

“No, the answer seems plain enough.”

 

“Just so. Princess Daenerys will sack Yunkai and Meereen, and then my own messengers shall entreat her to join King Aegon here in the Free Cities. Then with dragons of both kinds House Targaryen shall reclaim its rightful place.”

 

“What place does the Golden Company have in this new plan of yours?”

 

Illyrio nodded at the weapon in Griff’s hands. “Fearsome as they are they require skilled hands to wield them.”

 

“And none are more skilled than the Golden Company,” Griff smiled.

 

“Just so,” said Illyrio a smile beneath his forked beard and many chins. “The Golden Company is encamped in the Disputed Lands for the moment, gathering my gold and my supplies to themselves. I think it’s time the king reveal himself to them.”

 

“I couldn’t agree more,” though it was Griff the Sellsword who had come to Illyrio Mopatis but it was Jon Connington the Lord of Griffin’s Roost who left him to speak to the rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Skahaz

 

Sheltered from the baking heat of Slaver’s Bay, the Great Masters held court within the Great Pyramid of Meereen. They listened to what the sellswords had to tell of the movements of the barbarian girl from Westeros, Daenerys, who had sacked their sister cities and called herself the Heir of Old Valyria. Though he didn’t show it the words sent a shudder up Skahaz’s spine.  _ Every child of Ghiscar knows enough to fear the return of the dragonlords _ .

 

While most of the sellswords spoke Bastard Valyrian well enough to speak to the Great Masters directly, they still spoke among themselves in their own tongues, be they any one of the Valyrian dialects from the Free Cities, the Common Tongue of Westeros, harsh Dothraki, queer Ibbish, and a few even singsonged in Qartheen or YiTish. No doubt the sellswords thought themselves unheard in the Great Pyramid as most of the great masters would be listening to the current speaker above all else. And they were right  _ most  _ of the Great Masters were.

 

Skahaz let the other great masters listen to the bleating of the Volantene who currently held the floor, while he focused on the muttering herd farther down the hall. He nudged his newest slave, a young Naathi girl with a gift for tongues he’d won in a bet in the fighting pits from the Kraznys mo Nakloz, only a few weeks before the Good Master had met his death at the fires of a dragon.

 

“What is that one saying?” Skahaz asked, pointing surreptitiously at a Westerosi in a brown and blue surcoat over his worn mail.

 

The slave girl leaned towards Skahaz and whispered. “He says the City Watch of Meereen are not worth sheep shit and that they will be shattered by the Unsullied in minutes,” the slave provided him with an exact translation as Skahaz had demanded before the council.

 

_ He’s not wrong _ ,  _ but then that’s what he and his men are for _ .

 

The slave continued. “He goes on to speak many insults about the Good Masters of Astapor and the Great Masters of Meereen.”

 

“What is he saying exactly?” Skahaz asked.

 

The slave girl took a breath. “That the Good Masters and the Great Masters are fools and cravens, who hide behind walls and slaves. That if they were not rich enough to pay so finely, he would wish Daenerys well.”

 

_ He’ll need to be watched _ .  _ What the Great Masters of Meereen might lack in martial skill we make up of with intrigue _ .  _ If he so much as sneezes in Daenerys’ direction we will know _ .

 

“And that one, the one in the strange robes.”

 

The slave closed her eyes and focused of the speech of the black haired foreigner who was speaking to an older woman of the same race. The slave girl held her head low. “This one does not know their tongue,” the slave said quietly.

 

Skahaz sensed there was something the slave wasn’t saying. “Continue,” commanded Skahaz. “What else do you know?”

 

“This one has heard their tongue spoken in the presence of the Good Master Kraznys mo Nakloz, and knows that they are traders from the far south. From beyond the Summer Islands.”

 

_ Interesting _ . Skahaz let his eyes pour over the foreign party, aside from the grey haired woman they were all men, in near identical black and blue robes, with wide pants, and sandals. They had broad sashes of silk wound around their waists. Their hair was pulled back into knots near the back, they were clean shaven, and seemed to be very clean. Skahaz waved a finger to bring the attention of a message slave, who came over and knelt.

 

“What can this one do to please you Great Master?”

 

“Inform Qezzan mo Zhak, that it is the wisdom of Skahaz mo Kandaq that the leader of the black robed men be called next.”

 

The slave bowed three times and departed to do deliver Skahaz’s message to the Council Chairman of the day.

 

At last the Volantene sellsword finished his bleating and was dismissed. Qezzan mo Zhak rose from his seat, almost letting his tokar slip, and intoned. “Let the captain of the Beikango come forward.”

 

Without a hint of hesitation the strange man was allowed to advance. He walked rigidly toward the Great Masters of Meereen and gave a straight bow from his waist, waited a moment, and began to speak in thickly accented Bastard Valyrian.

 

“Great Masters of Meereen-city. I am Ryunosuke a captain in service to the  _ daitomi _ of Totoro. My fellow captains and I, come to you to offer our services against the Pale Girl.”

 

_ The pale girl must be the Targaryen _ .

 

Skahaz stood, holding his tokar tight and looking for permission from the chairman before speaking, Qezzan nodded his assent. “Why are you and your fellow captains so eager to fight on our behalf?”

 

The man, Ryunosuke, bowed as he turned to face Skahaz. “It was the will of the Great Captain to come to the Bay of Slaves and conduct trade. We were in Astapor-city when the pale girl unleashed her black monster to spread fire and ruin. The Great Captain, the son of the  _ daitomi _ , was killed. For our honour, vengeance is required.”

 

_ An interesting people _ , Skahaz picked up on the clenched fists among the other captains,  _ but I think there is more than honour at work here _ . “And how many men and ships do you bring?”

 

“Six  _ hokkaibune _ armed with  _ taisho _ and six hundred and fifty four men, armed and ready with sword, and spear and  _ juki _ .”

 

Skahaz forced his brow to remain unraised as he head the unfamiliar words and let them spin in his mind for a few moments. “What are these  _ taisho _ and  _ juki _ ?”

 

The foreign man smiled, then bowed, and then began to explain.

 

Despite his desire to seem unimpressed, Skahaz felt a small smile twitch at his mouth.  _ At last the children of Ghiscar will have dragons of our own _ ,  _ and we shall avenge ourselves upon the heir of Old Valyria _ .  _ We shall fight dragons with dragons _ .

The Cook

 

For three days and three nights the pirates followed them. Katamoto, the captain of  _ Poem _ had wanted to take a shortcut past the Isle of Women, which the locals called Lys. It had been a mistake.

 

“We should have listened to the locals,” said Katiro as Ajio slopped a soup of rice and meat in his bowl. “They warned us that pirates haunted these waters.”

 

“Be silent,” Hage the bosun growled from behind his red beard. “Captain Katamoro has made his choice and we will follow his commands. Even if the pirates catch up the _juki_ (firearms) and _taisho_ (cannon) will blast them from the water.”

 

Katiro walked away in silence, his bare feet slapping the deck as he walked away to his friend.

 

Hage offered his own bowl to Ajio. “And the  _ daitomi _ will reward us greatly when we return.”

 

Ajio shrugged at the mention of the wealth-lords. “So long as I’m paid. I don’t care.”

 

“Keep working miracles like this,” Hage sniffed at the soup. “And I’m sure Lord Tsukima will give you more gold than you know what to do with. That’s if Lord Masada doesn’t get you first. Heh heh.”

 

“Heh. Heh,” Ajio echoed out of politeness.  _ As if the  _ daimyo  _ or the  _ daitomi  _ care about a  _ Hokkaibune’s (North Sea Ship _ ) old cook _ .

 

Ajio stumbled as the ship shook as the strong winds switched direction without warning. The cauldron swung sending hot soup across the under deck. Ajio danced to avoid stepping in the hot water as he tried to set the cauldron upright again. He was still struggling, everyone loved his food but couldn’t be bothered to help, when the big gong sounded three times it’s deep bellow singing in his aching bones, and the little gong rang twice. _ All hands storm approaching _ .

 

Without a moment’s hesitation Ajio ran across the room and went up the ladder. Passing the younger men who were still trying to force rice into their bellies before answering the gong’s call.  _ Idiots, as if food matters when the ship could be sinking in ten minutes _ .

 

After decades at sea Ajio had thought he’d seen it all, everything that could be thrown at him. He’d been shipwrecked, kidnapped and sold into slavery, left adrift floating of a raft for weeks. But this took his breath away. Ten minutes ago the sun had been shining and the wind blowed calm and strong, a perfect day for sailing. Now the sky was black and green with clouds that roiled like a bowl of live shrimp. In the east the clouds seemed to touch sea itself, they spread from horizon to horizon, with long streaks extending westwards to block out even more of the sky. The winds had grown in strength sending a spray of water onto the deck, pulling up waves large enough to send the  _ Poem  _ all but flying.

 

Ajio watched a wave reach up like a great dark hand and bring a pirate ship into the depths. Lighting crackled in the east and above them striking the sea and another ship, seconds later the thunder boomed.

 

Unbidden thoughts rose from the back of Ajio’s mind, of his childhood when his grandmother told him tales of the Waveriders, blue eyed demons that came with storms from the cold southern seas, and how each tale ended with the same warning. “The Everstorm Comes,” Ajio whispered to himself.

 

The crew went to work, hauling lines to bring the ribbed sails up so they would not catch the furious wind and make  _ Poem _ capsize. Within minutes the rain was falling like arrows, and hail like bullets, pounding the deck and the men. Lightning flashed and thunder roared around them like the laughter of an evil god. Another swell sent  _ Poem  _ into the air, for a moment Ajio thought she had left the sea behind. But to the sea  _ Poem _ returned crashing into another wave sending water higher than the mast.

 

“Ware starboard!” Came a voice from the stern.

 

Ajio turned, squinting through the rain to see a great wave rising from the sea, the kind of wave that could smash a ship into kindling, but the wave was too far to fall onto  _ Poem _ and instead it crashed back into the sea.  _ Not the kind of thing one should worry about _ . But what lurked behind the wave sent a chill down his spine. Another ship, revealed for but a moment by the lightning, her sails raised she streaked fearlessly across the water, low and lean like the northerners liked their ships, deadly and swift. Far swifter than  _ Poem _ .

 

_ What kind of madman keeps his sails up in this _ ?

 

The ship shuddered again as another wave beat against it. The wind howled harder than ever sending rain and hail against them. Lightning flashed and Ajio saw the strange ship had grown even closer. Close enough to see the men who crowded the prow armed with sword and axe and bows, close enough to see the figurehead, it looked like two people. Then waves hid the ship again.

 

“Too arms!” Shouted the captain. “Too arms! We will show these pirates how true men fight!”

 

The crew roared and Ajio roared with them, though he felt no great hope for this battle. The storm made their greatest advantage, the  _ juki _ , all but useless. The crew opened the weapon chests pulling out spears, clubs and short swords. This was not the first time they had fought off pirates and it wouldn’t be the last, they were ready for what would come.

 

With a spray of water the pirate ship rose above them, riding high on the crest of a wave. Her crew screamed like demons in the darkness. The crew of  _ Poem  _ screamed back as the enemy ship raced toward them. Ajio could see her prow more clearly now, the figurehead was not two people it was one, a maiden of black iron with long legs, slender waist, high breasts and mother-of-pearl eyes which seemed to burn blue in the lightning, a maiden with no mouth. Beneath her was a living man, chained in place. At that sight something stirred in the back of Ajio’s mind, something primal rippling through his mind and up his spine, like he had just looked into the infinity of evil.

 

The ship crashed into  _ Poem  _ her ram locking them together, and the enemy crew screamed cries of hate as they crawled over the side. Ajio lunged with his spear, but it was contemptuously swept aside by a pirate’s shield. The pirate, a burly man covered in tattoos, hopped forward and brought the edge of the shield up into Ajio’s jaw. For a moment he watched as the pirates sweapt over  _ Poem’s  _ crew like waves upon the shore, but then there was only darkness.

 

Ajio awoke with sand in his mouth and screams in his ears. His arms and legs were bound and he was naked. He twisted and looked around, the storm had passed and they were on land,  _ an island most likely _ , for they were not far from the sea. It seemed some sort of bay, flanked on all sides by tall cliffs, with a beach of small stones, and higher, away from the tidewash, was a great rock of oily black stone, that seemed to radiate an aura of dread.

 

The screaming came from Tsukiko, the ship’s Wisdom, she was younger and prettier than most of her order, she had been strapped to a barrel, and a line had formed behind her. Ajio looked away. The rest of the crew were were naked and bound like himself, most of the pirates were sitting and drinking, a few tended to a large pile of loot, Ajio saw a separate pile made from  _ juki _ , and barrels of powder and shot. There was one last group, two old men and one old woman, all of them dressed in robes and with queer blue lips, tended to a fire and a large pot. Upon the pot were grotesque images of demons, doing unspeakable things to people. Not far from them was a handsome black haired man with an eyepatch, he was sitting by himself, stroking the barrel of a  _ juki _ . He had blue lips as well.  _ That’s likely their captain _ .

 

The whole scene sent shivers of unease up his spine, and it only took a moment to realise what. The pirates weren’t laughing, they weren’t singing, they weren’t joking or jesting, or doing any of the things sailors should do when they were on land. They sat quietly, not even in small clumps, every one of them was alone, alone and silent. Over two hundred people in the clearing and the only sounds were a bubbling cauldron and Tsukiko’s screams.

 

One of the robed men approached the captain and said something in a northern tongue Ajio hadn’t heard before. The pirate captain nodded and stood walking over to the tied up crew members of  _ Poem _ . The pirate laid a hand on Captain Katamoro’s head before reaching out to grab the hair of Shun, one of the ship’s boys, a child of only ten. The pirate pulled Shun over to the pot, the closer they got the more Shun struggled, but, tied and bound, he couldn’t resist the pirate. The pirate pushed Shun so that he was leaning over the pot and in one smooth motion cut Shun’s throat with a knife covered in strange symbols. With the help of the robed men the captain let Shun’s blood drain into the pot. The images on the surface of the pot began to glow a sickly green. 

 

“Sorcery,” Ajio cried, horror in his voice. He started to back away from the pirate captain,  _ the sorcerer _ , the rest of the crew tried to do the same.

 

The sorcerer leaned down next to the dead boy and stuck the knife into the fires. Blood sizzled as it dripped from the blade, the pirates rose and one by one took hold of  _ Poem’s  _ shaking crew, holding them still for what was too come. When Ajio felt a hand on his shoulders he looked up into the pirate’s smiling face and saw why they did not laugh or sing or jest.  _ He has no tongue _ .

 

With the knife heated red, the sorcerer stood picking up a set of pincers and he walked towards the prisoners. One by one the pirates forced open the crew’s mouths and the sorcerer took their tongues. Each one was added to the pot, which began to let out and awful ringing sound that grew louder and stronger the more tongues were added. Ajio realised he was crying and when his turn came he barely resisted as his mouth was opened, his tongue stretched by pincers, and a red hot knife cut out his tongue.

 

The pirates released him and Ajio fell forward, letting the blood trickle out of his mouth. He lay there as the last tongues were taken, only Tsukiko and the captain had been spared. The sorcerer stirred the pot and let it simmer and the fires died, the ringing sound smothered any other noise, the very ground seemed to shake.

 

The sorcerer gripped the pot in both hands and began to drink from it, blood and boiled tongues washing over his face, dripping gore across his body and slowly piling at his feet. The sorcerer groaned with pleasure, a wide smile spread across his face. He opened his eye and saw Ajio staring at him.

 

“I would share,” the sorcerer said in the tongue of Beikan, without even the faintest hint of an accent. “But I seem to have finished all of it.”

 

The sorcerer stepped forward and knelt in front of Ajio’s captain, grabbing him by his long grey hair and pointing the  _ juki _ at his heart.

 

“Who are you?” Asked the captain, fear straining his voice.

 

The sorcerer smiled a mirthless chuckle escaping him. “I am the storm. The first storm and the last.” 

 

_ The Everstorm Comes _ , blood dribbled from Ajio’s mouth as he moaned in terror.

 

The sorcerer leaned before the captain and reached for his eyepatch. “Now tell me your secrets.”

 

Ajio screamed when the sorcerer removed his eyepatch and he saw what was beneath.


	11. Chapter 10 (Arya, Daenerys, Davos)

Arya

 

Were it any other castle the main yard of Harrenhal, the Flowstone Yard, would have been packed with rushing servants, lazy soldiers, and returning outriders, but even with ten thousand men within the walls the great castle still felt empty. Lord Bolton’s army only occupied the barracks and lower two floors of three of the five great towers. Arya heaved her way across the yard carrying a great bucket of water. The water was for Lord Bolton’s leeching, this evening it would be all the little black ones across his chest and arms instead of the great big pale ones.

 

On her way to the Kingspyre Tower Arya passed by Elmar Frey, Lord Bolton’s squire, who was pushing a great barrel of sand to  clean Lord Bolton’s mail. He was so busy he didn’t notice Arya as she laboured past him into the Kingspyre Tower. Aya lugged the heavy bucket up three stories and she wound her way through the stairs to the highest habitable part of the tower.

 

The lord's bedchamber was crowded when she entered. The maester was in attendance, and dour Walton in his mail shirt and greaves, plus a dozen Freys, all brothers, half brothers, and cousins. There was also Harrion Karstark who waited at Lord Bolton’s side, a pair of his sworn bannermen behind him. When Arya had first seen Harrion she had thought for a moment of revealing herself to him, but then she had remembered how he and his brothers had treated Jon when they and their father had visited Winterfell. So she had stayed silent, instead thinking of telling Ser Helman Tallhart or Robett Glover.

 

Roose Bolton was not yet abed for his leeching, he sat in a chair facing the lords and knights of Frey and Karstark. Arya approached the waterbasin and filled it up as Ser Aenys Frey continued speaking, from the corner of her eyes she saw the small table was covered in papers.  _ Letters from Lady Walda most like _ . Lady Walda wrote from the Twins almost every day, but all the letters were the same. So Arya rarely paid any mind when Lord Bolton threw them into the fire,  _ but if they're from her why haven't they been burned yet _ ?

 

 

"We must not allow ourselves to be trapped here at Harrenhal," said Ser Aenys Frey who was a grey stooped giant of a man with watery red eyes and huge gnarled hands. "The castle is so large it requires an army to hold it, and once surrounded we cannot feed an army. Nor can we hope to lay in sufficient supplies. The country is ash, the villages given over to wolves, the harvest burnt or stolen. Autumn is on us, yet there is no food in store and none being planted. We live on forage, and if the Lannisters or the Baratheons deny that to us, we will be down to rats and shoe leather in a moon's turn."

 

"I do not mean to be besieged here." Roose Bolton's voice was so soft that men had to strain to hear it, so his chambers were always strangely hushed. “Before we continue I pray you will all take a moment, to read this,” Lord Bolton pushed a letter across the table. “From a raven recently arrived from Riverrun.”

 

The grumbling lords leaned forwards to read the letter. With the washbasin filled Arya shifted around the table to take a place in the corner of the room and wait on Lord Bolton’s pleasure. Arya watched the change come over the lords, pride and righteousness seemed to deflate as they read the letter. Harrion himself seemed particularly distraught sitting down in a spare chair with a defeated thump, holding his head in his hands.

 

“Nan,” said Lord Bolton. “I think Lord Karstark could use some wine. The Dornish red I think.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Arya said quietly as she moved quickly to pour a goblet of wine for Harrion,  _ why is he now Lord Karstark _ ?

 

It was Ser Hosteen who broke the silence. "Someone must have the courage to say it. This… this is beyond a disaster. The war is lost. King Robb must be made to see that. If Lord Tywin so much as sneezes in our direction the Trident will collapse."

 

_ If he does Robb’ll beat them _ , Arya thought savagely.  _ He'll beat them as he did at Riverrun and Oxcross _ , _ you'll see _ . Unnoticed, she stepped across the room and offered the wine to Harrion’s waiting hand. The bearded man took the wine and began draining it.

 

"Lord Tywin is many leagues from here," Bolton said calmly. "He has many matters yet to settle in the Reach. He will not march on Harrenhal for some time."

 

Ser Aenys shook his head stubbornly. "You do not know the Lannisters as we do, my lord. King Robb thought that Lord Tywin was fleeing south with his tail between, and know see what has become of him. Better than ten thousand men dead or fled. The Blackwoods and Vances turned traitor and taking their men over to the Lannisters, and his wolf and the Blackfish are dead."

 

"And the North is lost," Hosteen Frey spoke up. "He has lost Winterfell! His brothers are dead!”

 

Whatever else Ser Hosteen said was lost to Arya as for a moment she forgot to breathe. _Dead_? _Bran and Rickon,_ _dead_? _What does he mean about Winterfell_ , _Joffrey could never take Winterfell_ , _Robb would never let him_. _But if Robb’s lost a battle then maybe they might have_... It took all her strength to remain still and silent, the way Syrio Forel had taught her, to stand there like a piece of furniture. She felt tears gathering in her eyes, but willed them away. _It's not true_ , _it can't be true_ , _it's just some Lannister lie_. _But the raven came from Riverrun_ , a voice in the back of her mind whispered.

 

"And there is Stannis to consider!" Shouted Ser Jared Frey, who was lean, balding, and pockmarked. "With King’s Landing fallen he might even now be marching north to strike at Harrenhal."

 

“I rather doubt that,” Roose Bolton said softly. “Not yet at least if this is any indication,” the lord of the Dreadfort held up another letter, but rather than offer it to the lords he simply spoke of its contents. “King Stannis offers the lords of the North and the Riverlands, but one last chance to bend the knee to him. Those that do not,” he shrugged. “Will be destroyed,” he idly picked another letter from the pile on the table. “Lord Tywin makes a similar offer, albeit one more couched in courtesy.”

 

“It is because of the Lannisters that my father and brothers are dead,” Harrion Karstark spoke up. “I will never bend the knee to Joffrey,” he spat. “But I have no quarrel with Stannis. King Robb must be made to see reason. He must put off his crown and bend the knee, little as he may like it."

 

"And who will tell him so?" Roose smiled. "Make no mistake if these letters have come to us then they have come to Riverrun as well, where King Robb and all his other lords and ladies rest, including his uncle and his mother. If they cannot convince him to bend the knee… then what chance have we?"

 

“Perhaps the king wishes to speak with all of his lords bannermen before making such a great decision,” answered Ser Aenys Frey.

 

“Unlikely give what commands the king has sent,” Lord Bolton picked up another letter. “His Grace commands that our host be readied to return North once he arrives at Harrenhal and that as we wait on him that raiders should be sent to punish the traitors, Lord Norbert Vance of Atranta, and Lord William Mooton of Maidenpool. The second of whom has bent the knee to King Stannis.”

 

_ Good let the traitors burn _ , Arya forced herself not to smile, but others had different thoughts

 

“Seven Hells,” swore Ser Hosteen. “Has King Robb gone mad?”

 

“House Stark prefers to call it… wolfsblood,” whispered Lord Bolton.

 

“It’s this same madness that made Brandon Stark ride to King’s Landing and call for Rhaegar to come out and die,” Harrion spoke again.

 

Ser Aenys withdrew a hand from his temple. “If the king will not bend the knee, perhaps we should, before Robb’s madness brings death to us all.”

 

_ Traitor _ . The other Freys began to nod in agreement.  _ Traitors _ . 

 

Harrion Karstark growled into his beard. “House Stark bent the knee once, and after far less than this disaster. If Robb will not kneel, than it comes to us to do what is best for the North,” he nodded glumly at the Freys. “And for the the Trident.”

 

Roose Bolton and the other traitors continued to speak in hushed tones, but Arya didn’t listen to them, she quietly stepped away from them. She moved around the table,  _ quiet as a shadow _ , as she slipped out of Roose Bolton’s bedchamber.  _ Fear cuts deeper than swords _ .

 

Once she was out of the room Arya started to run.  _ Robett Glover and Ser Helman Tallhart _ ,  _ I think I can trust them _ .  _ I hope I can trust them _ . She had met them before, for a short time at least, in Winterfell when they had come to pay respects to her father. The red and pink garbed Bolton guards turned their heads to watch her as Arya rushed past them. Arya ignored them.

 

She opened the door of the Kingspyre Tower and leapt free of the tower,  _ free from the traitors _ , running across the Flowstone Yard to the Tower of Dread where the Glover and Tallhart lords stayed. The guard at the door to the tower didn’t question her, for Arya still wore the flayed man of Bolton upon her breast. She ran into the tower taking the stairs two at a time as she rushed to the last two loyal lords in Harrenhal.

 

She found Ser Helman in his chambers, the northern lord was supping privately, all but jumped as Arya ran into his room. He rose his face consumed by anger until her recognized her and the banner on her breast. “What is it girl? Why does Lord Bolton send you in such a rush?” 

 

Arya’s chest heaved as she gasped for breath. “Lord. Ehm. Lord Bolton did not send me.”

 

“And you felt you could just burst in on a knight of House Tallhart!” Ser Helman’s face was clouded with anger, he grabbed her arm. “It’s time for you to learn respect for it seems Lord Bolton has been lax!”

 

“Lord Bolton plots treason with Lord Karstark and the Freys,” Arya shouted as Ser Helman began dragging her out of the chamber.

 

Ser Helman froze in place. “What did you say?”

 

“Lord Bolton got a letter from Stannis, he’s going to bend the knee and the Freys and Karstarks  too. They’re calling Robb mad.”

 

Ser Helman squeezed her arm even tighter. “If you’re lying to me...” He left the threat unfinished. “Stay here,” Ser Helman released her at stalked out of the chamber.

 

Arya glared at the Northern knight’s back as he left the chamber,  _ I’m glad I didn’t tell him who I am _ . 

 

After Ser Helman was safely gone Arya eyed his supper, roast pork with applesauce and a side of vegetables. She glanced back into the hall to make sure no one was there and then snatched a carrot off the plate and popped it into her mouth. As she was chewing she saw Ser Helman and Robett Glover marching in grim silence down the hall. Curious she moved over to the window in Ser Helman’s chamber, from there she could look over the Flowstone Yard and watch what was happening. She saw a Glover man run to the barracks, while Ser Helman Tallhart and Robett Glover left the Tower of Dread and started to march towards the Kingspyre Tower they wore their swords. Before they could enter the tower they were met outside by Ser Jared and Ser Hosteen Frey.

 

Arya bit her lip as she watched the four men share words, she saw arms begin to swing, and finally saw hands go to swords. She wasn’t sure who drew first but suddenly Robett and Ser Helman were running for the barracks, and Ser Jared was lying still on the ground. From her place at the window Arya saw Lord Bolton exit the Kingspyre Tower, followed by Lord Harrion and Ser Aenys Frey, their swords in hand as they gathered their men in the shadow of the tower. Shouting came from the barracks as armoured men spilled out of the building. Screams and clashing swords filled the air as fighting consumed Harrenhal.

 

Daenerys

 

The road from Astapor to Yunkai was long and hot, the road was made of fused black stone like all of the Valyrian roads that spread across lands under the dominion of the Old Freehold. Dany sat atop her silver while her bloodriders, Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo, waited beside her, Ser Jorah waited as well, while Grey Worm and Strong Belwas stood side by side, with Arstan Whitebeard lurking behind the two eunuchs.

 

Dany and her advisors were atop a hillock that overlooked the army marching beneath them. Endless ranks of Unsullied, followed by the numberless hordes of the former slaves of Astapor. But it was not the army that drew Dany’s attention it was her navy, or rather what little remained of it.

 

_ Balerion _ ,  _ Meraxes _ , and  _ Vhagar _ had been shadowing the army as it moved northwards to Yunkai, and from there to Meereen. They had been carrying supplies for the army, food, and water, and even firewood. Her silver flinched as another thunderous boom carried over the sea and Dany saw the main mast of  _ Balerion _ begin to fall.

 

The battle,  _ if it could even be called a battle _ , had started a bare half an hour ago. The enemy ships had been sighted at dawn. The had come from the west out of the dark seas of Slaver’s Bay, hidden by the remnants of night. The had attacked with all the speed and ferocity of a pack of wolves attacking a herd of sheep. The enemy had attacked in a broad arc that left no way for the slower ships under Groleo’s command to escape. After the enemy had surrounded the three trade ships the thunder had started booming and the smoke started to cloud the seas.

 

Another boom echoed and Dany was made to watch as  _ Balerion _ shuddered and began to join the other ships in sinking below the waves.  _ So strange to hear such sounds in a clear day _ .

 

She turned to Ser Jorah. “What manner of weapons could do this?”

 

The broad chested knight shook his balding head. “I know of nothing that could do that, Khaleesi,” he said nodding at the sinking ships.

 

Arstan shook his head. “Poor man. Poor Groleo, all he wanted was to return to Pentos. To his wife and children.”

 

_ I didn’t know he had a family _ .  _ How much do I really know about any of them _ , she thought thinking of her court of her people.  _ What are their hopes and dreams _ ?

 

“Is there a danger of them striking the army with their weapons?”

 

“Perhaps,” answered Ser Jorah. “It might be wise to move inland, out of range of their weapons.”

 

“That would take the army off the road,” rebutted Arstan, who was twirling his beard in his fingers. “Away from the wells and oases, from the farms and granaries.” 

 

“But we’d be safer,” Dany said. “My people would be safer.”

 

“And the army would be slower,” Arstan shook his head, his snowy hair fluttering in the wind. “More vulnerable to raiders from Yunkai.”

 

Ser Jorah and Grey Worm nodded their agreement with the old squire.

 

“Raiders at least can be fought… Whatever those weapons are we have no defence, nor any means of striking back.” Dany nodded. “Yes. Give the orders, have the army move farther inland.”

 

Ser Jorah nodded with a glum twist to his mouth. “Yes, khaleesi.”

 

Grey Worm simply gave a pair of taps on the ground with his spear.

 

As if summoned by her words and her thoughts another puff of smoke rose from the enemy ships, another thunderous sound filled the air, and seconds later the sunbaked earth of the coast of Slaver’s Bay was sent flying. Her silver reared and Dany pulled on the reins with all her strength and she struggled to control the panicking horse. Instantly her bloodriders were at her side, not taking the reins of her silver, to the dothraki that would be almost unforgivable, but instead to protect her from whatever attacks might follow the thunderous blasts.

 

With an effort Dany brought her silver under control and looked up to see what carnage the barrage had wrought. Dany saw the great furrows and craters dug into the ground, like a giant child had been playing with a hoe or a spade, but mercifully it seemed that few enough of her people had been hurt.

 

Ser Jorah took her by the shoulder his bearded face twisted in concern. “Khaleesi are you hurt?”

 

She shook her head. “No. I’m alright,” she turned to her council. “See to my commands get my people into the safety of the hills. Rakharo, Aggo, Jhogo lead the khalasar ahead, you will be my eyes and ears.”

 

The councillors gave their bows and promises of obeisance, with Rakharo, Aggo, and Jhogo murmuring. “Blood of my blood,” as they gave shallow bows from their saddles, and quickly rode to gather the small Dothraki khalasar.

 

Her people did not need much urging to begin moving farther inland, in truth the greatest difficulty was in keeping the freedmen from scattering across half the countryside as they fled the terrible weapons that would cut them down like wheat before the scythe. The second greatest was in keeping them from looting the countryside as they moved inland. While Dany had no great sympathy for the Masters whose estates would have been sacked, she feared that it would have been their slaves that would bear the brunt on the freedmen’s thirst for vengeance. 

 

As Dany watched the lines of freedmen disappear into the hills she turned to Ser Jorah. “I hope I made the right choice.”

 

Ser Jorah shook his head and said nothing.

 

Three days of marching in the rough hills of the Astapori hinterlands had spread her people across nearly three leagues. Companies of Unsullied tried to keep order, but the rough terrain made it easy for the freedmen the become separated in the night. And it was on the morning of the fourth day that the raids began.

 

Daenerys surveyed the wreckage of the freedmen camp. It was beside a stream in a narrow gully between two rocky hills. Near five hundred of her people had been encamped here, and now they were dead.  _ Slaughtered in their sleep _ ... _ even the children _ , she looked a moment at a dead girl,  _ she looks barely more than seven _ .

 

She turned to Ser Jorah her voice low and tight. “Were there any survivors?”

 

“Yes, khaleesi,” the big man said. “A woman and her two children, they hid in a crevice.”

 

“Has she said anything?”

 

“That the raiders were not Ghiscari, that they were lead by a man with blue hair, and that their banners bore crows and lightning bolts.”

 

“Sellswords then?”’

 

Ser Jorah nodded in agreement. “Yes khaleesi, by the banners I would guess the Stormcrows.”

 

Dany shook her head. “I’m not familiar with that company.”

 

“That are not an old company, nor have they done any great deeds, but their reputation is good. The company is five hundred horse, likely armed in a mix of Dothraki and Westerosi style. Lances, swords, bows, and light armour.”

 

“The kind of soldiers that are best suited raiding.”

 

“Yes khaleesi.”

 

“And so long as the enemy are still present I dare not return my people to the road,” she shook her head. “But these raids cannot continue. One is too many. But we have not the cavalry to chase them down, my khalasar is brave but they are few in number, and most are too old or too young.”

 

“There might be something we can do,” said Ser Jorah.

 

Dany couldn’t help breaking into a grin as Ser Jorah laid out his plan to catch the Stormcrows, she turned to Grey Worm. “What think you of this?”

 

For a moment the iron discipline of the Unsullied cracked as Grey Worm gave Ser Jorah a sideways eye. “It could work,” he admitted.

 

Dany gave them a grim smile. “Then see it done. I want the head of this blue haired man, this captain. And see to the survivor I want her and her children well cared for.”

 

That night two hundred of the best armed freedmen and two hundred Unsullied led by Grey Worm himself, made their camp in the broad valley between two low hills, far off from the main part of her people. The camp was deliberately disorganized with tents and blankets and fires laid out randomly. The spears and shields of the Unsullied were kept hidden beneath the cloth or else were disguised as cooking spits or tent poles or travois. The freedmen themselves wore their normal clothes, which were often barely more than rags, and the Unsullied had left aside their spiked caps in favour of the traditional dresses and skirts of the women of Slaver’s Bay. From a distance the Unsullied with their slight frames looked indistinguishable from actual women. The camp looked almost identical to the one that had been attacked the previous night.

 

Ser Jorah and her bloodriders flanked Daenerys. “Khaleesi, we must return to the main camp.”

 

Dany nodded once and then spoke to her bloodriders. “Return to the khalasar be ready to strike when the trap is sprung.”

 

“Blood of my blood,” the three young dothraki spoke as one. They then turned their steeds to join the rest of the dothraki in hiding a few hills away from the trap. Daenerys was not long in taking Ser Jorah’s advice and returning to the safety of the main camp.

 

Now safely ensconced within the palisade and guarded by ten thousand Unsulled spears, Daenerys laid down in her tub as Irri and Jhiqui washed her with scalding water, she was too nervous to sleep just yet. Her handmaids scrubbed her skin raw and carefully washed her long silver hair.  _ Nothing to do now but wait _ .

 

Jhiqui needed Dany’s tense shoulders. “Relax khaleesi, worry will make you sleep badly.”

 

“It is known,” agreed Irri.

 

Dany sighed. “I’ll try,” she closed her eyes. “You can go now, I want to be alone for a time.”

 

Without a word the two women left Daenerys alone in her bath. She closed her eyes and laid her head back. She opened her eyes again it was because a hand was shaking her shoulder, the water was cold.

 

Irri shook her shoulder again. “Khaleesi, your bloodriders have come with Jorah the Andal and Grey Worm.”

 

Dany rose shivering from the cold water. “Get me dried and dressed, then send them in.”

 

Irri and Jhiqui worked quickly drying Dany off with hot cotton towels, and bundling her in a silk robe and in the skin of the hrakkar Drogo had slain, the white lion of the Dothraki sea. She sat down on a low couch and awaited her councillors. They entered one at time. First her bloodriders Aggo, Jhogo, and Rakhara had new bells in their long black braids. Grey Worm came next, he had taken the time to divest himself of the dress and put on his spiked cap. Ser Jorah entered last, he was still in his plate and carrying a bloodstained sack. 

 

As one the five men knelt before Daenerys and bowed their heads. Ser Jorah in the center pulled the open the sack and dropped a severed head upon the floor. A head with blue hair, a three pronged blue beard, and golden mustachios. While Rakharo and Aggo together offered up a Myrish stiletto and a Dothraki arakh, each with a golden hilt shaped like a naked woman.

 

Daenerys smiled.  _ One less child killer in the world _ .

 

Davos

 

In the late morning the Small Council met once more around the map and table. Davos again stood behind Ser Richard and Maester Cressen. His belly full after breaking his fast with all his sons, save for Daven who had been serving the king. It had been the first time in weeks that Davos had had a chance to speak with them. Dale, Mathos, and Maric had been busy with the Royal Fleet, while Allard had spent most of the last week exploring his new lands.

 

“Lord Celtigar, what is the state of the brothel investigation?”

 

Lord Ardrian coughed once to clear his throat. “We have found many records relating to the management of the treasury, though some appear to be in some kind of code,” he waved his hands. “The understewards Your Grace appointed have been very useful in decoding them, though there is still much work to do.”

 

King Stannis grunted. “What of the Riverlands?”

 

It was Maester Cressen who spoke first, raising a letter with a single wrinkled hand. “A raven from Riverrun, Your Grace. Lord Edmure has bent the knee, as have the Mallisters, Brackens, and Freys.”

 

“Good. What of Robb Stark, what of the North?”

 

“There has not yet been any response from them, Your Grace.”

 

The king ground his teeth. “They as yet have time to bend the knee. But my patience is not inexhaustible. Lord Edmure is to be confirmed as Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, and commanded to guard the Riverlands from Lannister and Ironmen reavers. The Riverlands have not the strength left to do much else.”

 

“We have received word from the Vale as well, Your Grace,” spoke Lord Alester. “While Lord Royce seems amenable to joining the Small Council, there is a disturbing amount of resistance from amongst the valelords to any kind of military aid, particularly from Lady Lysa. It seems she fears for her son.”

 

Stannis ground his teeth a moment. “Lady Melisandre, have your fires revealed any of this to you?”

 

The red woman bowed her head. “There have been no details Your Grace, but I shall ask R’hllor to spread his revealing light across the Vale.”

 

Stannis continued to grind his teeth. “Have we any supporters besides Lord Royce?” He asked of Lord Florent.

 

Lord Alester spread his hands. “Lady Waynwood seems amenable, though there are some dynastic concerns between the Waynwoods and the Arryns. Her ward is Harold Hardyng Lord Robert’s heir.” Lord Alester spread his hands “And he is young, handsome, and popular.”

 

“Lady Arryn has no need to fear Harold Hardyng usurping the Eyrie, not so long as I am king.”

 

“Of course, Your Grace. Alas I fear Lady Arryn will remain neutral and will keep the valeknights in their castles. Perhaps if you were to speak to her yourself?”

 

“There is no time for that. The army must march tomorrow or it might as well not march at all.” The king turned his gaze to Davos. “Lord Seaworth.”

 

Davos stood slightly straighter. “Your Grace?”

 

“Which of your captains would be best left in command of training the new companies?”

 

Davos thought for a moment. “Justin Massey, Your Grace. He’s popular with the men and he’s skillful enough to command the companies.”  _ He’s also loyal to the king not the Florents _ .

 

“Very well, see to the arrangements the army will leave tomorrow at dawn. Now my lords, there are other matters to speak on but they cannot be discussed here,” King Stannis stood and left the chamber, bringing the Small Council in his wake.

 

In the company of King Stannis, the Small Council, and half a hundred guards, Davos entered the manse that had been given over to Lady Asami Sato. Ser Richard and the rest of the kingsguard flanked the king, resplendent in their cloaks of snow white silk. The gates were manned by a pair of Dragonstone men, who bowed as the King and the council passed them by.

 

Perhaps at one time the manse had been a beautiful place but not anymore. The broad flower gardens had been removed and fruit trees had been cut down, all to make room for pits of burning coal framed by brickwork. The smell of smoke and brimstone filled the air. Gaggles of smiths, bellmakers, and alchemists were at work creating black powder and learning the secrets of making dragons from Lady Sato.

 

The lady herself was speaking watching a smith work on a narrow iron rod. She was a plain woman, dressed in simple brown and grey robes, her black hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head, she could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. As the king approached the woman turned, tapping her staff on the ground to signal the smith to cease working. She bowed to King Stannis. “Your Grace,” she said with only a slight trace of an accent. “Be welcome in this place.”

 

Stannis said nothing for a moment. “Thank you, my lady,” he forced out. He surveyed around the ruined gardens of the manse. “Production continues?”

 

“It is improving,” she answered. “The men learn quickly, and between the city and Dragonstone there is almost everything needed to make the black powder and the dragons,” she gave a small smile as she said the last word.

 

Stannis gave her a sharp nod of approval. “Good. How long until the first dragons are ready to be used.”

 

“A month at least, Your Grace,” she answered. “Longer for the great-dragons.”

 

As Stannis began to grind his teeth and fired off more questions at the foreign woman Davos took the opportunity to begin taking a closer look at the brickwork kilns and contraptions that filled the grounds of the manse. Molten metal,  _ iron and bronze I think _ , was being poured out of ceramic pots into molds that formed the metal into barrels and locks for the hand-dragons. Davos saw some larger barrels made of bronze,  _ larger but not big enough for true dragons _ , _ perhaps some kind of test or a new design _ . Davos turned his head as he heard footsteps,  _ the Red Woman _ . Melisandre of Asshai joined him in staring into the fires.

 

“I am of two minds about these weapons,” she said after a few moments of silence, Davos said nothing. “As weapons of fire they are surely a blessing from the Lord of Light,” she paused and turned to face Davos directly, the ruby in her choker pulsing softly. “And yet because of their presence Azor Ahai Reborn has yet to accept his place in the world and accept R’hllor into his life. What think you of that?”

 

Davos said nothing for several moments. “I think…” He turned his gaze to meet the Red Woman’s directly. “That the ways of gods are beyond the comprehension of mortal men and women.”

 

“Well said my lord,” she turned to return to the king’s side. “I will pray for you and for your sons, my lord.”

 

_ What does she mean by that _ ?  _ What has she seen in her fires _ ? After a moment’s hesitation Davos followed the Red Woman and returned to the king’s side, where Lady Sato was finishing her report.

 

“There are just two more things, Your Grace,” Lady Sato bowed again and motioned to several servants who had been lurking in the shadow of the manse, far from the heat of the forges and the kilns. One of the servants stepped through a nearby door of gilded wood, he returned a moment later carrying a small case and in the company of Tobho Mott who carried a sword wrapped in cloth. Everyone seemed to stop moving, stop breathing, even King Stannis seemed to be wrapped in anticipation as the master smith advanced. Tobho Mott knelt before the king and swept back the cloth to reveal the sword. 

 

The blade was hidden inside a sheath of gold and leather, with small black diamonds worked into the gold. The guard and pommel were both formed from valyrian steel instead of silver or common steel. The guard shaped like antlers and the pommel was a stag’s head mounted with a crown of gold, and on the grip was what Davos thought to be sharkskin. Small flecks of gold and black diamonds were set into the guard, grip, and pommel, making it sparkle in the sunlight. 

 

The king said nothing as he took the sword in both hands and drew it from the scabbard. He raised it up into the sunlight. The blade was just over three and a half feet long with the guard, grip and pommel adding another foot to the length. The sword’s blade was the dark smokey grey common to valyrian steel. The blade was diamond shaped with a fine point, suitable for cutting, and thrusting through the gaps in plate. Davos squinted as he examined the markings on the blade, careful not to speak aloud he slowly managed to connect the letters together and form them into words. On one side they read,  _ Ours is the Fury _ , and on the other,  _ One Realm One King _ .

 

“A glorious sword for the beginnings of a glorious reign,” said Lord Alester. The king said nothing, though Lord Ardrian and Maester Cressen mumbled their agreement.

 

“I pray that Your Grace is satisfied with my work,” Tobho Mott said quietly.

 

“More than satisfied, Master Mott,” Stannis said turning from the smith as he shifted the valyrian steel in the light. “And the second thing?” He asked of Lady Sato.

 

The woman bowed once and clapped her hands to summon another servant. The servant advanced carrying a box of lacquered hardwood. Stannis sheathed the valyrian steel sword, and passed it to Daven. He took the box from the servant and opened it, inside was a dragon. A small one of a kind Davos had seen only a few of the higher ranked Beikango possess, weapons which they seemed extremely reluctant to part with. The grip was made from weirwood, the barrel and the club-like but, were of valyrian steel, likely leftovers from the forging of the new royal sword, the hammer was formed in the shape of a stag’s antlers, and on the barrel itself were silver lightning bolts. In the upper part of the box were ten balls of valyrian steel.

 

“I have never worked with such metal before, never seen a metal so strong,” said Lady Sato her voice tinged with awe. “Even though twice the normal powder charge can be used I think this barrel shall never be in danger of bursting.”

 

Davos grimaced as he recalled the early attempts of the Dragonstone smiths to make their own dragons.

 

Lady Asami Sato continued. “Master Mott must again be thanked for forging the barrel, he is truly a master of his craft.”

 

Tobho Mott smiled a moment as the Beikango woman continued to heap praise upon him.

 

Stannis took up the dragon and examined it for several long minutes, as Lady Sato continued to speak on the various technical specifics of the weapon, most of it went over Davos’ head as she used several Beikango words for which there was not yet an equivalent in the Common Tongue. Davos caught Daven’s eyes, Davos’ son seemed even more befuddled than Davos himself.

 

“Enough Lady Sato,” King Stannis said at last. “I’m sure it will work as intended.” The king returned the dragon to it’s case and gave the case to Daven, who now juggled both the dragon and the sword. “But now we have council matters to attend too. Come my lords.” His golden cloak furling behind him, the king led the Small Council as they returned to the Red Keep.

 

As the royal party approached the Red Keep Davos felt a hand on his elbow turning he saw it was Ser Merret Dunmon, a knight from the Narrow Sea and one of Davos’ dragon captains.

 

“Mi’lord,” the younger man said. “There’s something you should see,” he pointed towards the Blackwater.

 

Ser Merret was a calm man at most times but Davos heard an edge of nervousness in his voice. Davos turned to see what had so shaken the man. From high on Aegon’s Hill, beneath the walls of the Red Keep Davos watched as the distinct ribbed sails of a pair of unfamiliar Beikango ships entered the Blackwater and began to approach the docks of King’s Landing.

 

“Your Grace,” called Lord Alester, he had seen the ships as well. “The ships...”

 

Stannis stopped staring at the ships from atop his grey gelding. “”If they are selling dragons buy them. If they are not… then do nothing so long as they obey the laws and pay the tariffs and dues. And summon their captains to me I would speak with them privately. Lord Seaworth, see to the companies. Lord Alester, continue to marshal the men of the Stormlands, and Crownlands for reinforcements, you will have command of King’s Landing in my absence.” The king glared at the Small Council. “What are you waiting for you have your duties, and there is a war to win.”

 

“Yes Your Grace, echoed the Small Council.”


	12. Chapter 11 (Catelyn, Mathis, Arya)

Catelyn

 

The green forests of the Riverlands began to melt away giving way to broad and fertile fields of wheat or barley, that in peace would have already been harvested by the smallfolk. Now though the fields were barren or burned, and what smallfolk they saw fled at the sight of armed men. Their party, a bare thousand horse, the last of the northern cavalry that had crossed the Twins to free Riverrun so long ago, had departed Riverrun a four days past crossing the forests and fields of the Riverlands and riding hard to Stone Hedge, the seat of House Bracken.

 

Lord Jonos Bracken himself had taken two hundred men and had ridden ahead, to prepare their for their arrival he said. But Catelyn knew that that was not the truth, she had happened to see the furtive glances and knowing looks passed between Lord Jonos, Black Walder, and Edmure. _Two hundred fighting men and whatever levies and sworn swords remain to Lord Bracken_ … _more than enough to hold Stone Hedge_ _against what Robb has to attack it, and he cannot waste the time for a siege_.

 

The sun was bright in the cloudless sky as they approached the seat of House Bracken. The Stone Hedge was an old and proud castle,  _ old and blackened now _ . The ancient stones were scorched from the fires that had consumed the moss that had once covered all the lengths and heights of the walls and the towers, moss that had grown so thick and so green it had helped to give the castle it’s name. The long walls were lined with squat square towers every thirty yards, enclosing a tall stone keep and dozens of wooden buildings, most of which were now naught but ash. The gates were made from fresh cut oak and were reinforced with newly forged iron, archers and footmen manned the walls. The gates were closed, and as the northern cavalry grew closer they stayed closed. Robb let his horse pull to a halt as he rode to the base of the gates. 

 

Hallis Mollen, who rode beside Robb and was serving as his squire since the death of Olyvar Frey at the Feast for Crows, stood in his stirrups and shouted. “Open the gates in the name of King Robb!”

 

The guards atop the gatehouse stood still, acting as if they hadn’t heard Hallis.

 

Lady Maege pushed her shaggy mare forward and shouted. “What is the meaning of this? Open the gates in the name of your king!”

 

Again the guards didn’t move, they stayed still and silent,  _ like statues uncaring and unfeeling _ . Robb was shaking in his saddle, his fist twisting the reins around and around.  _ A refusal _ ,  _ an ambush even would have been better _ ,  _ but this _ …  _ to pretend he isn’t even here _ … Catelyn shook her head,  _ that is simply cruel _ .

 

Robb stood in his stirrups and for a moment it seemed that he was going to scream at the guards, but then he sat down and slumped in his saddle. He stared at the guards atop the wall and shouted. “Lord Jonos! I took you for a man of courage! A man of honour! Now I see that you are neither! You are not but a craven! Who would betray his liege and quiver behind his walls rather than face the enemy! Are you so craven that you will not face me Lord Jonos! Will you not face your king! The king you have betrayed!”

 

As Robb’s voice echoed in the afternoon air, there was movement atop the walls as the guards stepped aside and bowed as Lord Jonos came and leaned over the battlements. “I see no king,” Lord Jonos Bracken said softly. “Only a maimed wolf begging for scraps.”

 

Robb fumed. “You would betray myself, your king? You would betray my uncle, your liege?”

 

Lord Jonos snorted. “It is by the command of Lord Edmure that I have closed my gates to you. For by his command the Riverlands now swear fealty to King Stannis Baratheon.”

 

Silence reigned over the walls of Stone Hedge. Robb glared at the walls for several long minutes and then turned his head turned away from Stone Hedge. Catelyn shifted in her saddle, as much as the straps and bindings would allow, she followed Robb’s gaze and saw that it settled on a collection of low buildings, newly made of wattle and daub and roofed in thatch. The homes of smallfolk, who were already trying to put the war behind them, she could see children playing, some even younger than Rickon.  _ Please Robb don’t _ ,  _ please Robb _ . She wanted to say something, say anything, but…  _ to rebuke him before his bannermen _ ,  _ especially after this _ ,  _ it would destroy what little authority he has left _ .

 

But her son looked away from the smallfolk,  _ from the children _ . He turned his horse, guiding it with his knees and his sole remaining hand. “We march to Harrenhal,” he declared as he lead his horse back through the column of cavalry, back to the road, back to the war. Catelyn followed, though her gaze remained settled on small hamlet that was settled on the edge of the field.  _ It’s likely they will never know how close they came to death _ . Catelyn closed her eyes, and let exhaustion carry her worries away.  _ For a time at least _ .

 

Another week passed and the weather turned sour. Blue skies gave way to dark clouds and the light autumn breeze fell to nothing and left the air still. Again and again Robb found the castles of the Riverlands closed to him.  _ The Riverlords have deserted him _ ,  _ and I fear Robb’s wroth will soon break _ .

 

On the morning of the ninth day from Stone Hedge Catelyn saw a scout return, riding with all haste to Robb’s side. She didn’t hear what was said but she saw what happened next. The northern cavalry spread out across the nearby field forming a wall of steel and horseflesh,  _ they’re preparing for battle _ . Catelyn waited behind them wrapped up in a thick, water soaked cloak.

 

Minutes passed with no sign of the enemy, the rain falling endlessly from the sky as a thousand men on a thousand horses waited for what would come. From her place in the rear Catelyn’s only clue that something had changed was a stirring at the rear of the ranks of cavalry. Then the ranks of cavalry parted to let a party of riders through.The banners carried by the riders hung limp in the rain and the windless air, but even so Catelyn could recognize that one bore the grey direwolf House Stark. Robb gripped his reins in his one hand and urged his horse forward with his spurs to meet the leader of the riders.

 

The leader of the riders, who Catelyn recognized as Ser Helman Talhart of Torrhen’s Square, dismounted and knelt in the mud. “Your Grace,” Ser Helman Tallhart’s brown and green cloak spread over his back as the rain poured upon him.

 

Robb stared at Ser Helman from the height of his horse. “Ser Helman, does Lord Bolton send you to greet me?”

 

Catelyn eyed a bloody bandage high on the arm of one of Ser Helman’s guards.

 

Ser Helman took a deep breath. “No, Your Grace. Harrenhal has fallen. Lord Roose, Lord Harrion, and the Frey’s led by Ser Aenys,” the northern knight all but spat those names. “They turned traitor and went over to Stannis Baraheon.”

 

Robb clenched his hand into a fist.  _ Oh gods please let my son see sense _ .

 

“Were it not for a servant girl,” Ser Helman continued. “They would likely have killed us, Your Grace’s loyal men, in our sleep. As it was Robett Glover was killed in the fighting, but I bring more than two thousand men to your banners.”

 

“And the girl?” Catelyn asked starling both men with her sudden question. “What happened to her? Such loyalty should be rewarded.”

 

“I know not what happened to her. It’s likely Bolton has flayed her alive by now,” Ser Helman said with a hint of sympathy in his voice.

 

“Then I shall pray for her,” Catelyn said sadly.

 

“As should we all,” agreed Ser Helman, Robb said nothing.

 

“Lord Bolton remains in command of Harrenhal then?” Robb asked.

 

“Yes Your Grace, Lord Bolton, Lord Karstark and the Freys under Ser Aenys,” answered Ser Helman.

 

Robb shook his head in frustration. “Ser Aenys would never turn traitor without his lord father’s permission. How many men are left to the traitors?”

 

Ser Helman sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I know not the exact number Your Grace, but at least five thousand, mayhaps as many as six,” Ser Helman responded glumly.

 

“Then we lack the numbers to do anything to punish his treason,” Robb growled. “Not yet at least. We march north, avoid Harrenhal and cross at the Ruby Ford. From there we enter the Neck and drive the Ironmen from the North and take the traitor’s castles.”

 

What few lords and knights that were left in Robb’s council nodded their agreement save for Lady Maege Mormont, who asked. “And how will we get past Moat Caillin? Or do you mean to be the first to take it from the south… Your Grace.”

 

Catelyn did not think she was alone in hearing Lady Maege’s pause in her courtesies.

 

Robb turned to stare a moment at the Lady of Bear Island. “Lord Reed has long been a friend of House Stark, with his aid we will move through the hidden paths of the Neck and bypass Moat Caillin and then attack from the northern side. Does that suffice to allay your concerns?” Robb asked harshly.

 

“It does, Your Grace,” Lady Maege said grudgingly.

 

“Good,” Robb tugged savagely on the reins of his horse. “Than let us begone from the south. For the North!”

 

“For the North!” The northern bannermen echoed.

 

“For the North,” Catelyn whispered.  _ Mother Above, I pray you have mercy on us _ .

Mathis

 

“With the Seven’s blessing Ser Garlan will take Bitterbridge before Lord Stannis comes from King’s Landing,” said Lord Tywin as he loomed over the map of southern Westeros. “If not then he will retreat down the Mander and join Lord Mace at Highgarden.” Lord Tywin tapped the map where the capital of the Reach was marked.

 

Mathis eyed the markers representing Ser Garlan and Lord Mace’s armies, their shadows flickering over the map in time with the candles that gave light to the late hour, and pulled to mind the hundreds of notes and details from previous meetings of the Small Council.  _ Ten thousand under Ser Garlan _ ,  _ another twenty thousand for Lord Mace _ , a _ t most _ .  _ And the scouts say Stannis has at least forty thousand men at King’s Landing _ , _ another five at Bitterbridge _ , _ and more if he gathers the Stormlords and Crownlanders _ .

 

“Even should Lord Mace and Ser Garlan’s armies combine Lord Stannis would outnumber them,” Mathis said. “Rather badly it looks like.”

 

Lord Tywin grunted. “Our host will be here,” he pointed at Weirwood Keep a holdfast halfway between Goldengrove and Cider Hall, right on the Roseroad. “Ready to trap Stannis between the two hosts, or if the worst should happen our line of retreat to Goldengrove or the West will remain open.”

 

_ Unless the very worst should happen _ , Mathis repressed a shudder as he remembered the fire and the smoke of the dragons at Storm’s End, and how they’d turned the flower of southern chivalry into so much fleeing children. He nodded once and, stifling a yawn,  _ it’s far too late to be planning a war _ , let a finger fall on Casterly Rock. “And when will Ser Daven be joining us?”

 

Lord Tywin shrugged. “A few weeks at most, though he’ll be stopping here for a time.”

 

Mathis thought a moment, staring out the window into the starry night sky, and then snapped his fingers. “Oh yes, for his nuptials with young Lady Stark,” he smiled cheerfully. “ My dear Bethany loves few things more than planning weddings.”  _ One of those things being not planning weddings for example _ .

 

“Excellent,” said Lord Tywin. “Once Lady Sansa is wedded and bedded Ser Daven will join us at Weirwood Keep bring our forces to forty five thousand men.”

 

“And how many of those will be armed with dragons?” Asked Lord Varys in his typical simpering tone.

 

_ As if you don’t know already _ , Mathis growled internally.

 

“Some seven hundred men have been armed with dragons,” Lord Tywin answered.

 

“An auspicious number,” Mathis said piously.

 

“A lacking number,” Lord Tywin responded. “Stannis has at least twice that number, and likely more.”

 

“At least the odds are evened somewhat, and our overall numbers are superior by far,” Mathis countered. “When Ser Daven joins us there will be forty five thousand men at Weirwood Keep, and another thirty thousand under Lord Mace and Ser Garlan,” he waved his hand. “All that compared to Lord Stannis’ bare fifty thousand at best.”

 

Lord Tywin returned to his seat before he acknowledged Mathis’ point. “It takes more than numbers to win a war, but they do help,” he admitted. “Once the host has left for Weirwood Keep, Queen Cersei, Prince Tommen, the Small Council, and the rest of the court will remain here, in Goldengrove, until Ser Daven has had his wedding, after that the court will journey to the safety and security of Casterly Rock,” Lord Tywin turned his goldflecked green eyes upon Mathis. “It is my hope that Lady Elinor would also travel to Casterly Rock, where she might grow closer to her betrothed, and be safe from any misfortune.”

 

_ And my daughter will be well within your grasp _ ,  _ and I can’t refuse without an offensive accusation that would be the perfect reason to have me resign from the Small Council _ .  _ Fuck me and fuck you _ . Mathis smiled and nodded politely at Lord Tywin. “I’m sure Elinor will love Casterly Rock.”

 

Lord Tywin didn’t smile,  _ thank the gods _ , but Mathis could tell he was pleased. “I’m sure she shall,” he said quietly.

 

“And. - _ kof _ -” Pycelle began to ask but his question was cut off by a vicious fit of coughing.

 

Mathis eyed the aging maester,  _ physician heal thyself _ , the long road from King’s Landing to Goldengrove had not been kind to the old maester and his coughing fits were getting worse as the days went by.

 

“And what - _ kof _ \- of the king?” Grand Maester Pycelle finally managed to ask between his hacking coughs.

 

“His Grace is almost of age,” answered Lord Tywin. “And the time is long past for him to see true battle, he will accompany myself and Lord Mathis to Weirwood Keep and hence to wherever the war should take us.”

 

“My lord,” Pycelle sputtered. “Is that wise, to-” Pycelle spent a few moments coughing into his wide sleeves. “ To risk the life of - _ kof _ \- His Grace, before he has - _ kof _ \- sired an heir? Or even - _ kof _ \- had his wedding?”

 

“His Grace, my grandson, will be kept safe from harm, I can assure the Small Council of that much,” Lord Tywin’s tone brooked no argument, he cleared his throat. “Now onto our other matters. Lord Petyr’s successes in the Riverlands,” Lord Tywin stood again and began to place red markers near the appropriate castles. “Houses Goodbrook, Vypren, Deddings, Lychester, and Ryger have all been swayed to return to the King’s Peace.”

 

The markers joined those that represented the two branches of House Vance and House Blackwood. This brought much of the southern and central Riverlands back under royal control, save for House Bracken, which formed an island of defiance. Mathis tapped his fingers on the map. “What of the other houses is there any news on why they would prefer to remain shackled to House Stark?”

 

Lord Tywin’s frown deepened for a moment. “It seems that Lord Stannis has been nearly as aggressive as ourselves. Edmure Tully bent the knee to Lord Stannis, and has brought the Mootons, Mallisters, Brackens, and Freys with him.”

 

Mathis felt his eyebrows rise. “If Robb’s own uncle has turned from him… Then it cannot be long before all of the Stark vassals do the same. What do we know of the goings on in Harrenhal, if the Freys have bent the knee then what of Lord Bolton?”

 

It was Varys who answered, simpering behind his fat little smile. “My little birds whisper that blood has again been shed within the walls of Harrenhal. It seems Lord Roose Bolton, Lord Harrion Karstark, and Ser Aenys Frey conspired to bend the knee to Stannis. Alas their plans were found out and Stark loyalists took up arms against their disloyal countrymen.”

 

Mathis leaned forward onto the table. “What about Stark’s movements?”

 

“He left Riverrun some weeks ago,” he smiled and giggled at the map. “And given the lack of castles for him the shelter in,” he shrugged. “It is rather hard to keep track of him. At my best guess Robb Stark is heading toward Harrenhal.”

 

Mathis pursed his lips as he thought for a moment. “He can’t be going into the Crownlands, Stannis would crush him, he must mean to head north and-”

 

“It matters not for the time being,” Tywin interrupted. “What Robb Stark does is his own business and not our concern. We must focus on the south. Lord Varys, has there been much news of goings on in the Vale? Do the Valelords mean to march?”

 

“Not as yet my lord Hand, it seems Lady Lysa is determined to keep the knights of the Vale in their castles. But,” the eunuch gave one of his small dimpled smiles. “My little birds whisper that Lord Stannis is courting the Valelords. In particular Lord Yohn Royce, whose son Ser Robar now wears a white cloak in service to Lord Stannis.”

 

Mathis frowned,  _ twenty thousand knights of the Vale riding out for Stannis is the last thing we need right now _ . “If Lord Petyr has proved himself so well in the courting the Riverlords, perhaps he should return to the kingdom of his birth to continue his good work?”  _ And stay far from court _ .

 

“My lord Hand,” the Spider spoke again. “The lords of the Vale are proud and are of ancient heritage, I doubt they will take kindly to His Grace’s messenger only being of a family ennobled for only three generations.”

 

“Lord Petyr was a trusted confidant of Lord Jon. Was it not Lord Jon who pushed for Lord Petyr to become Master of Coin?” Mathis countered. “And he is a childhood friend of Lady Lysa, even if the Valelords don't respect him they have every reason under the Seven to listen to him.”

 

Lord Varys opened his mouth to speak again, but Lord Tywin spoke first. “Enough Lord Varys I believe Lord Mathis has the right of it. Grand Maester Pycelle send the ravens, Lord Baelish must go to the Vale, though I think he will need some extra aid in persuading them.” Lord Tywin leaned forward and tapped his finger in the Riverlands. “House Whent is extinct and House Tully are traitors unsuitable to inherit such great holdings. Lord Petyr’s long service and recent accomplishments are worthy of reward. You will convey to Lord Petyr his rewards as well as his duties Grand Maester.”

 

“- _ kof _ \- Yes my lord,” the Grand Maester bowed slightly in his chair.

 

Lord Varys frowned slightly as Lord Tywin spent a few moments glaring at the map of Westeros. Mathis saw his eyes flickering between points on the map, before settling on the Summer Sea. “We need to know more about the foreigners, these  _ Beikango _ ,” his mouth twisted around the strange word.

 

“They seem to want money,” Mathis said blandly. “Though why they’d start by trading with the Stannis when he was naught but the Lord of Dragonstone,” he shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

 

“They,” Pycelle began only to start coughing. “They - _ kof _ \- they could mean to esta - _ kof _ \- establish some level of - _ kof _ \- influence over the Seven Kingdoms.”

 

“But why would they then sell dragons to Ser Daven?” Asked Varys. “Let alone the fact that their merchants are popping up all over the Free Cities. Hardly the actions of those wanting to turn the Seven Kingdoms into some kind of vassal,” the Spider shook his head. “No I think the esteemed Lord of Goldengrove has the right of it, what the  _ Beikango _ want is gold and silver.”

 

“Nevertheless,” Lord Tywin began. “An official emissary should be sent at the next opportunity to extend the warmest of greetings from His Grace to the  _ Beikango  _ king,” he huffed. “Assuming they even have a king and not some damnably confusing mess like the Free Cities,” he spoke to Pycelle again. “Send word to Lannisport and Oldtown that the captains of the next  _ Beikango  _ vessels are invited to an audience with His Grace. That is all for today my lords, the Small Council is dismissed. I shall see you on the morrow Lord Mathis.”

 

“Indeed you shall my lord,” Mathis said with a smile as he stood without hesitation.  _ It’s far past time to be asleep _ . Mathis followed Lord Tywin out of the Chamber of the Trees, with Lord Varys not far behind him, and the coughing Grand Maester Pycelle tottering along in the rear, his wet hacking cough echoing in the tower halls.

Arya

 

The door to the dungeons opened, letting light into Arya’s barren cell. She curled even tighter into herself, pulling her bruised and beaten body into a ball in the corner of her cell. Lord Bolton’s men had not been kind when she had been found in Ser Helman’s chambers. They had punched her, kicked her, and then they’d thrown her into the cells. She hadn’t been alone for long. The guards had quickly brought others into the cells. They were Tallhart men and Glovers and Manderlys and Hornwoods too. Knights and lordlings and the masters of holdfasts from half the North had been thrown into the cells by men in the red and pink of House Bolton or the black and white of House Karstark.

 

As the light from the open door near blinded Arya she closed her eyes even tighter  _ They’re coming for me now _ …  _ There’s no one else left _ . Only hours after the last of the prisoners had been thrown into the cells, the guards had started to take them back out, and they hadn’t come back. One by one they’d been all taken until, three days later with barely any water and no food at all, only Arya was left. The soft steps echoed in the empty dungeons, she forced herself not to shudder.  _ Fear cuts deeper than swords _ .

 

“Nan,” Roose Bolton spoke in his queer soft voice. “Nan. Nan. Nan. Why would you betray me? Am I truly so terrible a master?” The Lord of the Dreadfort sounded truly curious. “Look at me Nan,” his voice took a harsher tone, though no less quiet.

 

Arya opened her eyes, Lord Bolton was sitting on a short stool facing her through the rusty iron bars. “You’re a traitor,” she said. “You betrayed King Robb, the Young Wolf.”  _ My brother _ .

 

Lord Bolton’s thin lips twitched and he leaned forward. “Do you know the difference between treason and loyalty?”

 

Arya said nothing and stayed still.

 

Lord Bolton’s lips twitched again. “The difference is the side that wins decides which is which. Robb Onearm has lost and King Stannis has won,” he spread his hands. “Therefore I am loyal. You on the other hand are a traitor,” he said. “You betrayed King Stannis, you betrayed me, and now you will hang for it,” he stood and motioned for the guards. “Take her.”

 

The guards left their places at the wall and with a great crash threw open the door. They ran into the cell and roughly grabbed her by the arms, lifting her off the floor. Arya struggled twisting in their grip and kicking at their legs, their stomachs, anything she could reach. It didn’t matter, they were too big and too strong and too well armoured. Lord Bolton said nothing, he just watched.  _ He’s going to kill me. He really is _ . _ He doesn’t care about me _ . _ I’m just Nan _ ,  _ and Nan doesn’t matter _ ...

 

“My lord,” she cried. “Please my lord! My name’s not Nan! It’s Arya! I’m Arya Stark!”

 

The guards froze in place turning to meet the gaze of their lord. Lord Bolton hadn’t moved so much as a muscle since the guards had seized her. He still didn’t move as he looked her right in the eyes, his pale eyes seemed to bore into her. “Arya’s eldest brother Rickon, the bastard, he likes to climb does he not?”

 

Arya closed her eyes,  _ it’s a test _ . “Rickon is the youngest not the oldest, that’s Robb, and it’s Bran who likes to climb.”

 

Lord Bolton’s face gave nothing away as he asked another question. “And the bastard? Where does he fit it?”

 

“Jon’s younger than Robb, but not by much.”

 

“And Arya’s younger sister Jeyne, how much younger is she?”

 

“I don’t have a sister named Jeyne. My sister’s name is Sansa and she’s three years older than me.”

 

Roose Bolton let a small cold smile slip. “What are the names of the wolves?”

 

“Grey Wind, Nymeria, Lady, Shaggydog, and Ghost.”

 

“There’s one name missing,” Lord Bolton seemed amused.

 

“Bran didn’t name is wolf,” Arya answered. “Or at least not before we left Winterfell for King’s Landing.”

 

Roose Bolton let his cold little smile play over his features. He turned to his guards. “Take her to the Kingspyre Tower, have the servants bathe her, and do keep a careful watch on her. I’d hate for Lady Stark to cut short my hospitality.” The soldiers picked Arya up again and dragged her out of the dungeons and through the open door into the Flowstone Yard.

 

The dead were being stripped of their armour, by the gates a pile of naked, dead men was growing. A few of the dead had been laid out away from the main pile of corpses, among them was Robett Glover, the back of his head was a smashed up and bloody ruin. Not far away Arya saw Gendry standing amongst a number of Bolton men, he was dressed like them in mail and a surcoat of pink and red, he had a sword at his belt as well as his hammer. Arya would have stopped dead if the guards hadn’t been dragging her.  _ I thought you were my friend _ ? Arya let herself get dragged away into the Kingspyre Tower. 

 

The guards led her into the third level of the tower servants that had once slapped her and bossed her around now simpered, curtsied, and called her “m’lady.” They bathed her, scrubbing her skin raw to rid her of months of dirt and filth. Their combs and brushes all but tugged her hair out by the roots, in their attempts to get out all the knots. In their frustration the ended up trimming her hair with a sharp knife rather than fighting with it. After that the servants dressed her up in a frilly thing made of pink lace, pink silk, and pink everything. And then the guards came again.

 

The guards escorted her to the third floor of the Kingspyre Tower, to Roose Bolton’s bedchamber. There were five people inside, two were servants who had just finished serving supper, at the table sat Harrion Karstark and Roose Bolton, and behind them, standing guard, was Gendry.

 

Roose Bolton motioned at a third, empty seat at the table. “Please my lady. Sit.”

 

Arya sat and gripped the silverware in each fist. She stared at the lamb pie and roasted vegetables.

 

Roose turned to Harrion. “Are you satisfied?”

 

Harrion nodded, as he picked up his dagger and began to spear the vegetables. “Once you rid her of the grime… she’s Arya Stark without a doubt,” he chuckled. “But how she made her way from King’s Landing to Harrenhal is beyond me.”

 

Roose Bolton turned to Gendry. “Tell Lord Karstark what you told me,” he said almost lazily.

 

Gendry started as the attention of the two lords, and one lady, settled upon him. “I uhm,” he coughed. “I met Lady Arya in King’s Landing, we were in the company of a man of the Night’s Watch named Yoren.”

 

Gendry spoke at length about their journey with Yoren, the encounter with the goldcloaks, the battle at the holdfast where Yoren had died, their time spent on the run in the Riverlands, how the Mountain had captured them, and last of all how they had come to Harrenhal. Through it all Arya felt her fists grow tighter and tighter and tighter.  _ Traitor _ …

 

She threw her knife at Gendry. He blocked it with a raised arm and the knife slid off his chain mail. “I trusted you!” She threw her fork now. “You betrayed me!” Her fork went wide without even hitting Gendry. She pushed her hand into the meat pie and threw and handful at him. “I!” Another volley of pie. “Trusted!” Arya threw her plate at the traitor. “YOU!” The silver plate clattered against his armour. Arya was starting to clamber anto the table when Lord Bolton’s guards grabbed her and pulled her away. Arya struggled against them, not caring if her pink dress was torn, she turned and grabbed the naked hand of one guard and bit him.

 

The guard screamed and ripped his hand away. “Fucking bitch!” Arya saw him close his hand into a fist, even though she saw the blow coming she couldn’t dodge or block. She saw the fist and then she saw stars. She tasted blood and spat it out, a tooth went left with the blood.

 

“Hah!” Harrion laughed as he slammed his fist against the table. “She’s a Stark alright.”

 

“Marlon,” Roose spoke to the man who had punched Arya. “See yourself out. Gendry you’ve been very helpful go to the kitchens and help yourself to whatever you want.”

 

“Yes, m’lord,” the two men said as they hurried out of the room.

 

Roose Bolton stood, wiping globs of meat pie off his doublet, and spoke to the remaining guards. “Take Lady Stark to her chambers and put her to bed,” he turned to the servants. “Have her wagon readied for the morrow. We leave at midday.”

 

Arya struggled helplessly as the guards took her away. They dragged her into the halls and into her own bedchamber,  _ a gilded cell _ , and threw her onto the bed. Without a second’s thought Arya leapt to her feet and tried to squeeze past their armoured bulk. But there wasn’t enough room and the guards caught her and threw her back onto the bed.

Arya glared at the two men, but bereft of options she laid down to sleep. That night as she laid in a soft bed with warm wool sheets, trying to ignore the armed and armoured guards who stood within her room, she whispered her prayer. "Dunsen, Polliver, Raff the Sweetling,” she breathed. "The Tickler, the Hound, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, King Joffrey." Arya let a tired gasp escape her as she added three more names to her prayer. “Roose Bolton, Harrion Karstark, and,” she cut back a tearful gasp. “And Gendry.”


	13. Chapter 12 (Imry, Davos, Sansa, Arya)

Imry  
  
Maidenpool revealed itself slowly. The large town peeked out from behind a narrow peninsula that jutted out and into the Bay of Claws. The walls were of pale pink stone and surrounded a harbour busy with fishing vessels and trading ships. _The war has passed Maidenpool by for only a few months and already the smallfolk return to their lives as they were before_. Though as the royal fleet grew closer to Maidenpool it became clear that not all was back to normal yet. The streets of Maidenpool were still framed by burned out buildings and rubble from where other buildings had been torn down. Bodies no longer filled the streets, but the swarms of flies made it clear that the streets had not been clear for very long.  
  
From the keep and walls of Maidenpool flew dozens of banners, but chief among them were the crowned stag of King Stannis, the leaping salmon of House Mooton, the twin towers of Frey, and even the silver trout of House Tully, but most numerous of all were the banners of the North. The Ryswell horse, the crossed axes and crown of Dustin, and the banners of a hundred lesser houses, and above them all rose the white sunburst of House Karstark, and the flayed man of House Bolton.  
  
As _Fury_ made it’s way into the harbour Imry straightened and silently buffed the silver foxhead brooch that held his cloak in place. The pier that _Fury_ docked beside was crowded with men of noble standing. And three lords, William Mooton, Harrion Karstark, and Roose Bolton, were already standing in wait. As _Fury_ came to a stop Imry made his was from the sterncastle onto the main deck. From below he could hear Maric Seaworth shouting commands to the oarsmen in the sailors jargon that Imry still struggled to understand. Within moments the gangplank thudded onto the pier and Imry cautiously stepped off the ship, and onto the plank. A few seconds of tottering later, as his legs adjusted to being back on solid ground, and Imry stood in the company of his fellow highborn.  
  
The fleshy and pale Lord William stepped forward to greet him. “Lord Captain Imry, in the name of Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, I welcome you to Maidenpool. Please come and bring your captains I have had a feast prepared in your honour.”  
  
Imry bowed courteously. “Many thanks my lord, truly your generosity is without measure,” Imry turned to face the northmen. “Lord Harrion, Lord Roose it is such an honour to meet the heros of Harrenhal at long last,” just behind the northern lords was a gaggle of Freys led by a tall and round-shouldered man with a thin grey beard. Imry smiled. “Ser Aenys, I had not thought to meet you here.”  
  
Ser Aenys gave a slight bow. “My lord father bid me lead some of our men to the North. To give aid to Lord Roose as befits his being goodfamily.”  
  
“Excellent Ser, His Grace will be most pleased with Lord Walder,” Imry clapped his hands together. “There is another matter,” Imry said drawing a piece of parchment out of his belt. It was sealed thrice, with the Baratheon stag, the seal of the Hand, and the Florent fox and flowers. Imry broke the seals and read aloud the declaration. “In the name of His Grace Stannis of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm, his commands carried out by Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep, Warden of the South, and Hand of the King. It is thus the will of the King that the title of Warden of the North be granted to Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort, in recognition of his stalwart loyalty, and peerless courage.” Imry gave the parchment to Lord Roose, for him to examine.  
  
The new Warden of the North let a slight smile play over his pale features. “Hail Stannis King,” he said. “Long may he reign.”  
  
“Long may he reign!” Imry and the surrounding highborn echoed.  
  
“Come my lords,” said Lord William. “The feast won’t eat itself.” With a wave the Lord of Maidenpool began to lead Imry and his captains to the castle.  
  
The great hall of Maidenpool Castle was low ceilinged, many windows lined the walls, paned with coloured glass depicting the acts of the Seven. Lord William sat at the head of the high table, as was his right as host, but it was Lord Roose who sat in the place of honour at Lord William’s right, that was the center of attention.  
  
_And well he should Lord Roose has delivered the North to the One True King_. Imry stood and raised his goblet. “A toast to Stannis Baratheon the One True King of Westeros,” he drank deeply and then raised the goblet again. “To Harrion Karstark and Aenys Frey, the heros of Harrenhal!” Another draught of wine. “And last but not least, to Roose Bolton the Warden of the North!” A cheer shook the rafters as the lords and knights drank deep of wine and ale.  
  
Imry soon lost track of time as countless more toast were made for deeds real or imagined. The wine was ever flowing and he was ever drinking. At some point he stood on the table and began, to the the misfortune of everyone present, to sing. What he was singing he couldn’t say, only that before long he was being pelted with food until he fell off the table. That was the last thing he remembered of that night.  
  
Imry woke with a pounding headache and to piercing pain as the early morning sunlight streamed through the woolen drapes that tried, and failed, to block out the sun. “Geaugh...” he pulled his blanket over his head. “Fool of a Florent,” he mumbled recalling Lady Olenna’s nickname for him. _Damn wine_. He flung the blanket back, and forced himself upright. He made himself walk to the waterbasin and pushed his head under the water.  
  
After a bath of cool water and changing into fresh clothes he felt almost alive. A breakfast of bacon, eggs, and bread filled his stomach, and a bitter potion from the maester brought some solace to his head. Now ready to face the day Imry joined his captains and the northmen.  
  
They met around a table in a tower overlooking the Bay of Claws. Fat stone columns marked by carvings of salmon and seaweed supported a tall ceiling, wide windows and balconies gave in natural light and fresh air for a refreshingly open atmosphere. A wide table of varnished pale oak made for a fine council table, as the Freys, northmen, and the captains of the Royal Fleet gathered to plan how best to subdue the still rebellious North. Despite the pounding in his head Imry forced himself to focus on the map laid out before them. All the lands of House Florent could disappear in this kingdom and no one would notice.  
  
A slew of wooden pieces marked out control of the North, the western coast was infested with krakens, while much of the east was controlled by flayed men and sunbursts, the southern parts were divided between the axes and crown of Dustin, and the merman of Manderly, save for a cluster of krakens around Moat Cailin. In the southeast Ryswell horses battled with Greyjoy krakens. The northern reaches of the map were the domain of mailed fists, Glover, roaring giants, Umber, and the direwolves of Stark. South of the Neck was a lonely wolf representing the last forces in the south loyal to Robb Stark.  
  
Imry broke the silence. “Lord Manderly’s sons were killed by the Lannisters were they not, perhaps if we approached him then-”  
  
Lord Harrion Karstark cut him off gruffly. “The Manderlys practically worship House Stark, we’d have better luck getting him to burn down his sept than to betray Robb Onearm.”  
  
Plump Duram Bar Emmon spoke up. “But how are we to land the host without White Harbour as a port?”  
  
It was Dale Seaworth who answered. “Ramsgate has a port does it not?”  
  
“A small one,” Lord Harrion answered. “Though Lord Woolfield is bound to Lord Manderly by oath and by blood to Lord Wyman. I doubt he’ll willingly betray his liege.”  
  
“The sight of ten thousand men, and two hundred ships should be sufficient to make him compliant,” Lord Roose spoke for the first time.  
  
“Aye,” Imry said agreeably. “And from there, we put White Harbour under siege.”  
  
Roose replied. “White Harbour’s walls are strong my lord captain. It will take many weeks to cause a breach, and the Manderly fleet is not to be underestimated.”  
  
Imry grinned. “Not so my lord, not so. My lord uncle Alester Florent, has granted the Royal Fleet the use of six dragons. More than enough to ruin walls, be they of wood or of stone. Control of White Harbour gives us the White Knife,” Imry gestured at the river that flowed north near to the gates of Winterfell itself. “And the White Knife gives us the North.”  
  
“I would not be so sure of that,” Lord Harrion said.  
  
“Why not? Unless I miss my mark Bolton, Karstark, Dustin, and Ryswell are four of the greatest houses in the North and as seen at this table are loyal to King Stannis. Robb Stark is on the run, and he has only the Manderlys, and when White Harbour falls that will mean nothing,” Imry waved his hand contemptuously. “The Stark legend has outgrown the House Stark.”  
  
“And that is why Robb Stark is still a threat,” Roose Bolton spoke firmly in his queer quiet tone. “So long as Robb Stark lives the North will never know peace. Unless he should truly lose himself to madness not seen since King Aerys,” he grimaced. “Then wherever he goes he will find men willing to fight for him. Be they highborn or lowborn they will fight. From the Sheepshead Hills, to the Mountain Clans men will rally to him. If the North is to be ruled than Robb Stark must die, and he must be seen to have died.”

 

Davos  
  
The refuse of battle surrounded Bitterbridge. Ser Garlan Tyrell’s host had retreated in the face of King Stannis’ van, under the command of Ser Jon Fossoway, rather than risk being trapped against the walls. Even so blood had been shed as the Reachmen rearguard defended against the van and a sally from the castle, led by Ser Mark Mullendore.  
  
King Stannis rode his horse down from the hills, his councillors and commanders at his side. Davos had a place of honour as he rode awkwardly at the king’s right in his new armour, a gift from the king. The Red Woman rode at the king’s left, since they had left King’s Landing she was often close to the king.  
  
The dead were already being gathered and stripped of their weapons and armour. Silent Sisters, septons, and maesters walked the injured giving aid or mercy as required. Amidst the blood and the cawing crows Ser Mark Mullendore waited for the king.  
  
Ser Mark knelt before the king. “Your Grace, Bitterbridge is yours.”  
  
King Stannis said nothing as the army continued to march down from the low eastern hills. “As well it should. I trust there was no danger of the castle falling.”  
  
“None Your Grace, Ser Garlan lacked the numbers to press an assault, and with the bridge across the river we did not lack for supplies. As it was the siege lasted only a week before Your Grace’s arrival.”  
  
“Ser Mark and Ser Jon you will send your outriders south. Follow Ser Garlan’s movements and keep watch for any sign of Lord Mace or Lord Tywin.”  
  
“Yes Your Grace,” Ser Mark Mullendore bowed.  
  
“As you command, Your Grace,” Ser Jon Fossoway said.  
  
“Good. Lord Seaworth see to your command. Lady Melisandre with me.”  
  
Davos bowed in his saddle, still awkward in his steel plate. “Yes, Your Grace,” he slowly turned his horse and left the king. He rode as fast as he dared over the even ground. _What I wouldn’t give to be on a ship right now_. Davos made his slowly made his way down the great column that approached Bitterbridge. Atop the summit of a low hill he spied Ichiro waiting for him. Since the Battle of King’s Landing the red haired Beikango had been working with Davos to prepare the dragonmen for the coming battles. Spurring his horse to go a little faster Davos joined Ichiro, who looked just as uncomfortable as Davos atop his own brown gelding, in waiting for the dragonmen to arrive.  
  
The dragonmen were some of the last to come out of the hills. Near two thousand strong armed with dragons and now, on the advice of Ichiro and Ser Masuro, accompanied by three thousand men armed with spear, pike, halberd, and all manner of polearms. Most of them were drawn from the Stormlands where thousands of years and hundreds of wars with the knights of the Reach had taught the Stormlords the importance of a strong wall of foot. Like the dragonmen they had been divided into companies commanded by knightly captains, who in turn, took their commands from Davos. _The Lord Commander of Dragons_ , Davos chuckled to himself, _a bit grandiose for my tastes_. Behind the ranks of soldiers came the dragons proper, their great iron or bronze bulk stowed in wagons pulled by dozens of oxen and horses.  
  
“In my homeland,” Ichiro said quietly. “All armies look like that. Rank on rank of foot soldiers with _juki_ and _yari_ and then the _taisho_. Ahem, hand-dragon and spear and dragon you would say.” He looked farther afield eying the glittering array of the Florent knights. “It is a rocky land, full of mountains, our horses are not so great as those, or so numerous.”  
  
Davos waved as he spied Ser Aemon Thunder, his old sergeant, marching amidst the ranks, before asking a question of his own. “Do you have kings in your homeland? Knights?”  
  
“Of a sort,” he replied. “Like here there are nobles, but they do not rule land they only serve their lord as warriors or administrators or as traders. And there is not one king, there are none. There are many lords, some of land others of wealth. And then there is,” he stopped his hands groping for the word. “Ah, I do not know your word but he is the _Tenno_ , perhaps something like a king but... more so much more than a king. What word would you use?”  
  
Davos shook his head. “I don’t know, perhaps a maester would be able to say.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Ichiro said. “I will see to my brethren,” he bowed. “Goodbye Lord Commander.”  
  
“Goodbye Ichiro,” Davos said as his friend departed.  
  
Late in the evening, after having settled his men in a camp near the Mander, Davos retired for the night. His squire, a quiet lad named Willem Musgood, swiftly removed his armour and set it up on its stand. Davos patted the boy on the shoulder. “Go to bed lad, it’s been a long day, and tomorrow will be just as long.” Willem left for his own small tent, leaving Davos to enter his own bare canvas tent, furnished only with a set of folding furniture, a table, a stool, and a low bed padded with a straw mattress. He threw his cloak upon the folding desk and sat on the bed, head in his hands.  
  
“Good evening my lord,” the Red Woman said as she slipped uninvited into his tent.  
  
Davos started to his feet. “M’lady,” he waited for her to respond but Melisandre said nothing. “Was there something I could help you with m’lady?”  
  
The Red Woman stepped further into Davos’ tent, she looked around without any expression on her face before her gaze settled on his armour. She crossed the cramped space and laid a pale hand on the breastplate. “How does your armour suit you, my lord?”  
  
Davos was silent for a moment as he tried to order his mind in the face of this intrusion. “Well enough m’lady. Though the visor does catch sometimes,” he paused and shook his head. “Makes it bothersome to shut. Was there something you wanted of me m’lady?”  
  
Lady Melisandre rubbed the enameled black ship and onion with her hand before returning it to it’s resting place beneath her cloak. “Perhaps you should ask His Grace for a new helm if this one is so… bothersome.”  
  
“I would not want to bother His Grace about such a simple matter.”  
  
She smiled and looked into Davos’ brazier for a moment, when she turned to face him again the ruby at her throat pulsed and glowed bright enough to match the coals. “No you wouldn’t would you. Are you a good man, Davos Seaworth?" she asked suddenly.  
  
"I am a man," he said. "I am kind to my wife, but I have known other women. I have tried to be a father to my sons, to help make them a place in this world. Aye, I've broken laws, but I’ve never felt that I’ve done evil. I would say my parts are mixed, m'lady. Good and bad."  
  
"A grey man," she said. "Neither white nor black, but partaking of both. Is that what you are, Ser Davos?"  
  
"What if I am? It seems to me that most men are grey."  
  
Melisandre seemed almost amused. "If half of an onion is black with rot, it is a rotten onion. A man is good, or he is evil."  
  
A surge of wind made the canvas tent ripple like a sail. "You speak of men and onions," Davos said to Melisandre. "What of women? Is it not the same for them? Are you good or evil, m'lady?"  
  
That made her chuckle. "Oh, good for certain. I am a knight of sorts myself, sweet lord. A champion of light and life. But I fear you are lost in darkness and confusion, Lord Davos."  
  
Davos shook his head and twisted his lips in a crooked grin. “Lost like King Stannis?” He poked at her.  
  
The pulsing glow of her ruby choker seemed to burn a little brighter at that. "You know not of what you speak, you are no more than an ignorant child, my lord. Grasping at straws and making mock of the servants of R’hllor. The king makes use of the His weapons, the dragons does he not? They are weapons of fire, the bright gift of the Lord of Light."  
  
Davos shrugged. "Have it your way."  
  
“His way rather,” Melisandre cocked her head.  
  
“Why did you come here m’lady? I hardly think it was to lecture me on my heathen ways.”  
  
“Very astute of you my lord,” Melisandre stepped past Davos and closer to the entrance. “After speaking with His Grace I asked a favour of him. He lent me the services of young Devan for a few hours. As it happens I have no more need of him,” she pulled back the flap of the tent. “Devan,” she called.  
  
A moment later Davos’ son entered the tent. Melisandre turned to look at Davos one last time. “Goodnight my lord of Seaworth.” Devan and Davos watched the Red Woman depart.  
  
Davos knelt by his son’s side, he put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been awhile hasn’t it?”  
  
Devan smiled. “Yes father.”  
  
Davos smiled in return. “Come on take a seat,” he motioned for Devan to sit on the stool while Davos took the bed and reached behind it and into one of his saddlebags. “Now you are to never ever tell your mother about this.” He pulled out a bottle of amber wine from the Summer Isles. “This was a gift from Salladhor Saan after we took King’s Landing, and I’d thought to save it for a special occasion. But what’s more special than an evening with my son.” He pulled out a pair of wooden cups. “So why not share it with you, your first drink, eh?” He filled the cups and gave one to Devan.  
  
Devan gripped the cup with both hands and took a sip, only to immediately spit it back out. “I thought it’d be sweeter,” he gasped.  
  
Davos patted his son on the back, threw his head back, and laughed.

 

Sansa  
  
Though Goldengrove was smaller, it’s walls and towers in better condition, and far more splendorous, Sansa could not help but be reminded of that day so long ago in Winterfell, when her father, Bran, and Rickon had still lived, and how they had waited on the arrival of King Robert.  
  
Today’s arrival would not be half so grand as that, Ser Daven was naught but a knight of a lesser branch of House Lannister. Even so the court had come out in all their finery to greet him. Queen Cersei took to the center of the courtyard, flanked by Prince Tommen, the Small Council, and Lady Bethany and her two daughters Serra and Elinor. The castellan of Goldengrove, Ser Marron Rowan and old man with a pot belly and a distant cousin of Lord Mathis, was present as well.  
  
Slowly the gilded gates opened allowing Ser Daven and the lords of the host to ride into the courtyard. Ser Daven looked every inch a lion of war, from his gilded steel plate glittering in the evening light, to his cloth-of-gold cloak, to his great blond beard and long blond hair, that brought to Sansa’s mind her father’s bannermen. Ser Daven rode his horse before the queen and dismounted he then knelt at before her and Lady Bethany.  
  
Queen Cersei smiled, and said courteously. “Be welcome cousin.”  
  
Lady Bethany curtsied. “In the name of my husband Lord Mathis, I welcome you to Goldengrove.”  
  
Ser Daven looked down and smiled in return. “Your Grace, my lady, you honour me with your presence, and if I may say you are both even more beautiful than I remember.”  
  
“You are too kind ser,” Lady Bethany said happily.  
  
Queen Cersei stepped forward and took Ser Daven by the hand and led him to where Sansa was standing. “Cousin may I introduce you to Lady Sansa Stark.”  
  
Sansa smiled and curtsied, saying nothing as Ser Daven stared at her.  
  
Ser Daven smiled in return. “How wonderful to meet you my lady.”  
  
Whatever else he was going to say was cut off by Queen Cersei. “Come cousin, you must be tired from your journey, and Lady Bethany has prepared a family dinner for us.”  
  
As the crowds dispersed Lady Bethany took Sansa by the shoulder, and whispered in her ear. “Come my lady, tomorrow will be a long day, you should go to bed and get some rest, but first I have a special treat for you.”  
  
Lady Bethany took Sansa to her chambers where a number of seamstresses were waiting with a beautiful dress. Lady Bethany stayed and watched as they dressed Sansa in her new clothes, and adjusted them for her own figure.  
  
The smallclothes were all silk, but the gown itself was ivory samite, burgundy silk, and lined with blue satin. The points of the long dagged sleeves almost touched the ground when she lowered her arms. And it was a woman's gown, not a little girl's, there was no doubt of that. The bodice was slashed in front almost to her belly, the deep vee covered over with a panel of ornate Myrish lace in ivory. The skirts were long and full, the waist so tight that Sansa had to hold her breath as they laced her into it. They brought her new shoes as well, slippers of soft grey doeskin that hugged her feet like lovers.  
  
"You are very beautiful, my lady," the seamstress said when she was dressed.  
  
"I am, aren't I?" Sansa giggled, and spun, her skirts swirling around her. "Oh, I am."  
  
Lady Bethany clapped her hands. “Oh that dress brings me back. That’s enough for tonight I think, time for bed Sansa.” The maids obeyed their mistress, quickly removing the dress and settling Sansa down for her night’s rest.  
  
She was woken early in the morning by a number of serving girls who filled Sansa's tub with steaming hot water and scrubbed her head to toe until she glowed pink. Other maids trimmed her nails and brushed and curled her auburn hair so it fell down her back in soft ringlets. They then dried her and clothed her in her new dress.  
  
Sansa was so at peace that she did not notice the door opening and Queen Cersei entering the room, until the queen snapped an order at one of the maids. "A few gems, I think. The moonstones Joffrey gave her."  
  
"At once, Your Grace," her maid replied.  
  
When the moonstones hung from Sansa's ears and about her neck, the queen nodded. "Yes. The gods have been kind to you, Sansa. You are a lovely girl,” she turned to the maids. “The cloak," she commanded, and the women brought it out. It was a long cloak of white velvet heavy with pearls. A fierce direwolf was embroidered upon it in silver thread. Sansa looked at it with sudden dread. "Your father's colors," Cersei said, as they fastened it about her neck with a slender silver chain.  
  
_A maiden's cloak_. Sansa's hand went to her throat.  
  
"You're prettier with your mouth closed, Sansa," Cersei told her. "Come along now, the septon is waiting, and the wedding guests as well."  
  
"No," Sansa blurted. "No."  
  
"Yes. You are a ward of the crown. The king stands in your father's place, since your brother is an attainted traitor. That means he has every right to dispose of your hand. You are to marry my cousin Ser Daven."  
  
Sansa backed away from the queen. "I won't."  
  
"I understand your reluctance. Cry if you must. But know that a thousand noble girls would gladly take your place. For you are to marry a man who is young and handsome, and not some drunken fool."  
  
"You can't make me,” she stuttered objections. “The king is not here to give me away, I can’t be married."  
  
"Of course you can. Just as a father may have another take his place, so can the king. Ser Marron Rowan will give you away. Now you may come along quietly and say your vows as befits a lady, or you may struggle and scream and make a spectacle for the stableboys to laugh about, but you will end up wedded and bedded all the same." The queen opened the door, Ser Marron Rowan and Ser Boros Blount waited outside. "Escort Lady Sansa to the sept," she told them. "Carry her if you must, but try not to tear the gown, it was Lady Rowan’s once."  
  
Sansa tried to run, but Cersei's handmaid caught her before she'd gone a yard. Ser Boros said nothing, but Ser Marron took her gently by the hand and said. "Do as you're told, my lady. A wedding isn't be so bad.” He smiled at her. “Starks are many things but none may call them craven, so be brave my lady."  
  
_Brave_. Sansa took a deep breath. _I am a Stark of Winterfell I will be brave_. They were all looking at her, the way they had looked at her that day in the yard when Ser Boros Blount had torn her clothes off. It had been the Imp who saved her from a beating that day, and for a moment she wished that it was him she was marrying. "I'll go," she said quietly.  
  
Cersei smiled. "I knew you would."  
  
Afterward, she could not remember leaving the room or descending the steps or crossing the yard, and entering the godswood, where the sept was. It seemed to take all her attention just to put one foot down in front of the other. The castle sept was an open building the roof held up by seven great columns, surrounding the sept were seven great rowan trees, with images of the Seven carved into their trunks. The altar of the sept was placed atop a massive weirwood stump. A relic of the time before the Andals and the Seven came to the Reach.  
  
Ser Daven himself was waiting for her, he wore a doublet of crimson velvet covered with golden scrollwork, fine leather boots worked with rubies, and a chain of rubies and lion heads. His great beard was washed and combed, and his long hair was pulled back into a tail behind his head. "You are very beautiful, my lady," he said courteously.  
  
"It is good of you to say so, my lord," she did not know what else to say.  
  
They stood in awkward silence for a few moments before Daven offered her a broad and callused hand. "Come, then. Let us do our duty."  
  
So she put her hand in his, and he led her to the marriage altar, where the septon waited between the Mother and the Father to join their lives together. In the crowd she saw Ser Boros Blount there in Kingsguard white, guarding Queen Cersei and Prince Tommen. Ser Balon Swann in black and white silk, and other witnesses aplenty. The eunuch Varys, Jalabhar Xho, Lady Tanda Stokeworth, Pycelle trying, and failing, to cough quietly, and a dozen others.  
  
The ceremony passed as in a dream. Sansa did all that was required of her. There were prayers and vows and singing, and tall candles burning, a hundred dancing lights that the tears in her eyes transformed into a thousand. Thankfully no one seemed to notice that she was crying as she stood there, wrapped in her father's colors, or if they did, they pretended not to. In what seemed no time at all, they came to the changing of the cloaks.  
  
Ser Marron stepped behind her. Sansa stood stiff as a lance as his hands came over her shoulders to fumble with the clasp of her cloak. Despite his fumbling his hands stayed where they should. Then the clasp opened, and Marron swept her maiden's cloak away without a flourish.  
  
When she was young Sanda had dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders, and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. Ser Daven did much of that though he did not kiss her, and his beard tickled her bare shoulders.  
  
When Sansa turned, the big man was gazing down at her, his mouth tight. "With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband."  
  
"With this kiss I pledge my love," Ser Daven replied hoarsely. "And take you for my lady and wife." He leaned forward, and their lips touched briefly.  
  
_I wish he was ugly_ , _then it would make it easier to hate him_.  
  
The septon raised his crystal high, so the rainbow light fell down upon them. "Here in the sight of gods and men," he said, "I do solemnly proclaim Daven of House Lannister and Sansa of House Stark to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."  
  
She had to bite her lip to keep from sobbing.  
  
The wedding feast was held in a small hall at the base of what was called the Sapling Tower. Small Hall. There were perhaps fifty guests; Lannister retainers and allies for the most part, joining those who had been at the wedding. The Rowans and their vassals were there as well.  
  
From the way her husband had acted during the wedding she might have thought him to be made of stone, but it was in the feast that he seemed to come alive. Daven ate and drank in equal measure, standing at each toast, boasting and jesting with the guests. The feast seemed as endless as the fields of the Reach, though Sansa tasted none of the food.  
  
She wanted it to be done, and yet she dreaded its end. For after the feast would come the bedding. The men would carry her up to her wedding bed, undressing her on the way and making rude jokes about the fate that awaited her between the sheets, while the women did Daven the same honors. Only after they had been bundled naked into bed would they be left alone, and even then the guests would stand outside the bridal chamber, shouting ribald suggestions through the door. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked and exciting when she was younger, but now all she felt was dread. She did not think she could bear for them to rip off her clothes, and she was certain she would burst into tears at the first randy jape.  
  
When the music began to turn she put a wary hand on her husband's own large and calloused paws. “Should we dance, my lord?”  
  
Daven looked startled for a moment, as if he had forgotten she was there. He smiled dutifully. “Of course my lady.”  
  
They stood and took the floor hand in hand. Her husband was not a great dancer, but neither was he a boor. He danced slowly and sure footedly his face still, and his brows tight in concentration. Other guests soon joined them on the floor. Little lady Elinor danced with Prince Tommen, and a dozen western squires. Lady Bethany spun and danced with her husband's household knights and bannermen. Lady Crane took the floor with the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, gorgeous in his feathered finery. Cersei Lannister partnered first with Ser Marron and then, when the time came to switch partners, stole Daven away from Sansa.  
  
Sansa seemed to dance for hours, for the first time in many months she was almost happy. But her relief was short lived for no sooner had the music died then she heard someone shout. "It's time to bed them! Let's get the clothes off, and have a look at what the she’s got!" Other men loudly took up the cry.  
  
Ser Marron stepped away from her but the void was soon filled with younger men, men with squeezing hands and pinching fingers. They lifted her up and flung her over their shoulders, pinching at her bottom and her breasts, pulling at her dress, laughing and singing drunkenly as they went. She closed her eyes to stop her tears from overflowing. The men carried her up the stairs, idly she heard the women shrieking behind her as they did the same to Ser Daven.  
  
At last the flung her naked into the bedding chamber, Ser Daven was not far behind her. For a moment they both waited within their chamber, naked, listening to the guests pound on the door and shout suggestions and japes. Daven moved first taking the pitcher of wine set on the bed table and drinking deeply, disdaining the use of the nearby goblets. He pushed the pitcher into Sansa’s trembling hands. “Drink my lady, you’ll need your courage for tonight.”  
  
Sansa did as he said drinking the rest of the wine in a four great gulps, and feeling it boil in her stomach.  
  
Daven was facing away from her, leaning against the carved wood paneling of the walls. “Do you hate me?” He asked without looking at her.  
  
Sansa opened her mouth, but the meaningless courtesy died in her throat, _I am a Stark of Winterfell I will be brave_. “Yes,” she said savagely, trying to put all her hate, her grief, her rage into that one word.  
  
Daven didn’t move as he spoke in turn. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want this. But now we must do our duty, so come to bed and let’s have this be over with.” He took her hand in his and all but pulled her to the bed.

 

Arya  
  
The great doors of the Iron Gate were open, as Arya and the other prisoners entered King’s Landing. _Everything I did_ , _everything done to me_ , _everyone who died to get me back home_ … _and now I’m back in King’s Landing_.  
  
The rusted gates gaped open like a mouth ready to swallow her, gold cloaks lurked in the shadows, their spears like fangs, and on the walls flew golden banners with black stags. The covered wagon Arya rode in was flanked by Bolton, Karstark, and Baratheon men, led by a short knight with a mouse on his shield. Behind her was a column of prisoners, mostly Manderly, Glover, or Talhart men who had followed their lords and stayed loyal to her brother. They had ridden hard and fast, following the road overland from Maidenpool to Duskendale, then down the coast to King’s Landing.  
  
Past the Iron Gate was Flea Bottom, _or the ruins of it at least_ , it seemed as if half of Flea Bottom had been burned or torn down. But crews of men were dragging the wreckage away and already some new, clean buildings of stone were being constructed. The workings were overseen by Septons, gold cloaks, and men with foxes on their surcoats. _Sansa would have known what House that meant_ , she felt a tinge of sorrow plucking her heart as she thought of her sister, _I wonder if she’s still here_? _I wonder if she’s even still alive_?  
  
The wagon rattled past the ruins of Flea Bottom and into the wealthier heart of the city. The buildings were taller and more often made of stone or brick than ramshackle wooden scraps. There were signs of fire and battle here as well, but only in the corners in the alleys that hadn’t been cleaned of ash just yet.  
  
It was here that Arya’s wagon and the prisoner’s parted ways. The loyal northmen were marched up the Street of Sisters to Rhaenys Hill where the Dragonpit lay. _Some of the men said Stannis had dragons_ , _does he mean to have his beasts eat them alive_?  
  
Arya’s wagon, however, turned east moving along the broad clean street that ran up Aegon’s High Hill, straight back to the Red Keep. The crowds parted to let them pass, but didn’t seem at all interested in them, far more concerned with their business, and keep clear of the ever present gold cloaks.  
  
Before long the gates of the Red Keep loomed before her and high above her were spiked heads lining the walls. They were black with tar and some of them had already been stripped of their flesh by the crows. Still, Arya craned her head hoping, praying, that she would see Queen Cersei, King Joffrey or any of the names from her prayer. She’d almost given up when a bit of red caught her eye. Despite the tar, and his missing cheek, Arya recognized Ser Meryn’s red beard and droopy eyes. _One less name_ , warmth spread through her body as a smile cracked her silent mask.  
  
Arya’s wagon rumbled through the gates and into the heart of the Red Keep. Without wasting a moment her guards took her from the wagon and escorted her into the maze of hallways and chambers, leading her unerringly to a small chamber where a pair of maids and a bath of hot water were waiting. Arya was stripped, washed, brushed, and dressed up in a new frilly southron dress. She silently endured the torment. When the maids were done the guards returned. They lead her deeper and higher into the Red Keep. Arya quickly began to recognize the halls, tapestries, and even the doors. _They’re taking me to the throne room_.  
  
The open doors of the throne room were guarded by a squad of guards armed with clubs. The guards didn’t so much as look at Arya as her minders led her inside. It was much as she remembered it from the few times Septa Mordane and her father had managed to make her attend the boring court. That being said the Iron Throne looked much more intimidating from the great marble floor than from high in the stands along the walls.  
  
There were many others waiting at the court, but her guards led Arya past almost all of them, save for a tall man with grey eyes and massive eyebrows, and plump woman with greying brown hair flanked by two brown haired boys, both of them younger than Arya.  
  
The massive bulk of the Iron Throne loomed over them, like some great monster, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the person sitting high amongst the barbs and blades of the Iron Throne. A girl about Arya’s age in a high necked dress of black and gold, her black hair fell to her shoulders, a grey mark covered half her face, and a silver tiara atop her head. Surrounding the base of the Iron Throne were three knights of the kingsguard in white armour, snow white silk cloaks, and with swords and queer clubs at their belts. Arya didn’t recognize any of them.  
  
The Small Council was gathered to the side of the Iron Throne, two old men one in blue with crabs on his mantle, the other in dark green robes. There were two people with great big ears, a silver haired man with a well trimmed beard, and a tall thin woman with a moustache, and an empty chair as well.  
  
As Arya took her place before the Iron Throne the guards around the throne room stamped their clubs on the floor, and a handsome man shouted. “Hail Shireen, the Princess of Dragonstone!”  
  
“Hail!” Echoed the lords and ladies, including the two waiting with Arya.  
  
The girl, Princess Shireen, leaned forward slightly. “Lord Yohn Royce,” her quiet voice was barely audible. The man with the bushy eyebrows stepped forward and knelt before the Iron Throne. Shireen continued. “We the court are so very pleased that you accepted His Grace’s offer and have come to be His Grace’s Master of Laws. Please come forward and sit, take your rightfully earned place upon the Small Council.”  
  
Lord Yohn Royce stood and bowed to the princess. “It is an honour to be called upon by His Grace and you, My Princess,” then walked silently to where the Small Council was sitting, taking the empty chair.  
  
Shireen looked upon the plump woman, who was waiting in a blue dress between the two boys. “Lady Marya Seaworth,” the woman and her sons ventured forward. “Long has your husband, Lord Davos, served His Grace loyally and in turn your sons have served just as loyally and they have all been rewarded for it. It was feared by some that, given your husband’s duties, it might be many more months or even years before he could leave court and return home to you,” Shireen smiled. “And so we bring you and your youngest sons here so that you might greet Lord Davos upon his return. As a gesture of our gratitude I would invite you and your sons to dine with me.”  
  
Lady Marya stood and curtsied, her sons bowed. “You are too kind My Princess, of course we accept your generous invitation.”  
  
The princess smiled waved her hand, summoning a servant from the shadows. “He will take you to your quarters.”  
  
"Thank you My Princess," Lady Marya bowed again.  
  
“Lady Arya Stark,” Princess Shireen called on her to come forward.  
  
Arya closed her eyes and gathered her strength, fear cuts deeper than swords, she walked forward and looked up to face the princess. From here she could see Shireen more clearly, see her square jaw, her big ears, the greyscale that marked her cheek. She’s ugly.  
  
The princess smiled from amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. “Often have I heard about the honour and bravery of House Stark, Lord Eddard himself in particular. It is in memory of Lord Eddard’s bravery and the great friendship he bore with King Robert, my uncle, that you are welcomed to King’s Landing. I hope that we can be friends as well.”  
  
Arya tried to summon her anger, to refuse, to shout, to scream… _but what’s the point_? _Yelling didn’t help at Harrenhal_. She closed her eyes, _if I can be Weasel and Nan then I can make them think I’m a perfect little lady_. _What would Sansa say_?  
  
Arya forced a smile to appear on her face and made what she hoped was a perfect curtsy. “My Princess, nothing would please me more.” _Blech_!


	14. Chapter 13 (Tyrion, Daenerys, Catelyn)

Tyrion

 

His memories hadn’t done justice to the Wall. The towering piece of ice rising more than seven hundred feet into the air, and then stretching on and on as far as the eye could see to the west. The cold northern winds bit at him through his black cloak as his mule ambled along the road to Castle Black. Lancel rode beside him upon a swaybacked nag, somehow managing to look quite striking in his old and faded black cloak, black doublet, black leggings, and black boots. They rode in a party of a bare dozen led by a ranger with a huge beard imaginatively called Bearded Ben. Most of them veterans from Eastwatch-By-the-Sea sent to patrol the Wall for wildlings, the rest were new recruits like Tyrion and Lancel. They were poachers, rapists, and thieves, and none of them gave half a shit that Tyrion and Lancel were Lannisters. Ser Alliser Thorne and Janos Slynt, on the other hand, had cared very much indeed.  _ Thank the gods Cotter Pyke decided to send us on to Castle Black else I fear we wouldn’t have lived to bear our vows _ . Trouble had been brewing from the moment they had landed at Eastwatch, it seemed that the Ser Alliser had not forgotten Tyrion’s japes from when the knight had visited King’s Landing, nor had Janos Slynt forgotten who had sent him to the Wall. And now the two people at the Wall with the most cause to hate Tyrion had managed to become fast friends.

 

Lancel and Tyrion had sworn their vows in the damp and dreary Eastwatch sept and within hours had been put a horse, or a mule in Tyrion’s case, and were made to join a scouting party that would patrol from Eastwatch to Castle Black, searching for wildlings. Tyrion wasn’t sad to be gone from Eastwatch for if Castle Black had been cold, dreary, and rundown then Eastwatch was it’s uglier dockside whore of a cousin. The slumping towers were speckled with salt blown from the Shivering Sea. which has more than earned its name, Tyrion shivered as he remembered the vast grey waves that seemed poised to swamp the ships and send them to a freezing death.

 

The road the ran the length of the Wall was more similar to a trail than it was to the Kingsroad or the Gold Road. It ran through the rough hills and woods that marked the Gift. Every so often they passed within sight of a small hamlet, though most of them were abandoned for fear of wildling raiders. Most nights they slept in the ruined halls of the abandoned castles of the Night’s Watch. It took them a week’s worth of riding to reach Castle Black. The Wall was shining and sparkling in the evening light as they approached Castle Black.  _ It seems a mite bit emptier than it was on my previous visit _ . That was an understatement before he’d left there had been hundreds of Black Brothers in the fortress, now the castle seemed almost empty. From the ground, he couldn't tell if there were sentries walking the Wall seven hundred feet above, but he saw a few people on the huge switchback stair that climbed the south face of the ice like some great wooden thunderbolt.

 

As they entered the castle a lone guard greeted them as they entered waving down Bearded Ben. Tyrion recognized him as one of the boys who had trained with Jon Snow,  _ Grenn I think the one Ser Alliser called the Aurochs _ .  _ He’s grown some _ .

 

“Ben, what’s brought you here?”

 

“Scouting for godsdamned wildlings,” he threw a thumb over his shoulder. “And bringing these buggers to Castle Black.”

 

The big lad looked past Bearded Ben, and Tyrion saw his eyes grow wide as saucers. “Lord Tyrion?”

 

Tyrion snorted. “Just Tyrion now I fear,” and at the Aurochs’ obvious confusion he continued. “I was on the wrong side of a battle.”

 

“Quite a story to tell then?”

 

“I fear not I spent most of the battle shitting myself.”

 

Bearded Ben interrupted. “Charming as all this is but let’s get inside before we freeze our balls off.”

 

“Yes, let’s do that,” agreed Tyrion as he urged his mule into the nearby stables.

 

With the mule and the horses safely stabled Tyrion and Lancel made their way into the common hall. It was much as he remembered a great timber hall with crows nesting in the rafters, it stank of smoke and sweat, and the food was a disgusting stew, but it was warm, and for that alone, it was like the Seven Heavens. All of the good seats by the fires were taken by the Black Brothers,  _ my brothers now _ . Now safely within the warm common hall and bowls of stew in their hands, Tyrion let his eyes wander over the faces in the hall,  _ not very many familiar ones _ . In the end, Tyrion and Lancel settled down at a table as close to the fires as they could get without intruding on the other’s space.

 

“Do you think we’ll ever get used to the cold?” Lancel asked.

 

“The day that happens is the day the Wall falls,” Tyrion said.

 

“Don’t even jape about that Imp,” said the one armed Donal Noye. "Not with wildlings everywhere. Harma Dogshead at Woodswatch-by-the-Pool, Rattleshirt at Long Barrow, the Weeper near Icemark. All along the Wall here, there, and everywhere. They’re climbing near Queensgate, they're hacking at the gates of Greyguard, they're massing against Eastwatch, and getting ready to cross the Bridge of Skulls.” the smith slapped his hand on the table. “But one glimpse of a black cloak and they're gone. Next day they're somewhere else."

 

Tyrion was silent for a moment thinking on. “I suppose a quiet exile at the Wall was too much to ask for.”

 

Donal Noye chuckled grimly. “The Wall’s only quiet when you’re sitting pretty in King’s Landing. When you’re here there’s always a crisis coming.”

 

“I’d thought to meet Jon Snow here. Where is he?”

 

Donal Noye eyed him. "Jarman Buckwell’s scouts saw him near two months ago with their own eyes, riding alongside a wildling column and wearing a sheepskin cloak."

 

Tyrion sat stunned for a moment. “He deserted?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“That hardly seems like him I’d have thought any of those recruits would have deserted before him.”

 

“You never know what someone will do before they go beyond the Wall.”

 

“What was he doing up there? Unless I misremember the Old Bear said he’d become his personal steward.”

 

“Aye he did, and that’s exactly what Jon Snow was doing. The Old Bear lead our three hundred best, a third of the Watch, on a great ranging.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Several reasons and I believe Ser Alliser mentioned one of them to you at King’s Landing.”

 

Tyrion laughed mirthlessly. “That damned hand?”

 

“That damned hand,” Noye repeated.

 

“You can’t expect me to be afraid of the Others and their wights, what next snarks and grumkins?”

 

It was then that Tyrion noticed the silence that had fallen over the tables. _ I might have been a bit too loud there _ .  _ Damn my tongue _ .

 

“Thirteen men,” said the Aurochs, who had stood up and was glaring Tyrion. “Thirteen out of three hundred. That’s all that came back to Castle Black. Most of them died at the Fist, killed by dead men, dead animals, the cold, and worse things. Demons made of ice and hate, the Others. The one that didn’t die there died in the woods as we fled for our lives! And the ones that survived all that, most of them mutinied. They killed the Old Bear, they killed my friends. So yeah, be afraid Imp!” The Aurochs sat down and silence returned to the hall.

 

Tyrion turned to face Donal Noye. “Was what he said true?”

 

“Every word, and on top of that a hundred thousand wildlings are running south and we’re right in their path.”

 

“And how many men are here?”

 

"You’re looking at most of them, forty odd all together," said Donal Noye. "The crippled and infirm, some green boys still in training, and the two of you."

 

“Fuck me. Thank the gods for the seven hundred foot wall of ice,” Tyrion shook his head. “Who’s in command?"

 

The smith shrugged his broad shoulders. "Ser Wynton Stout, gods help him and us. He’s the last knight in the castle.”

 

Tyrion felt a brow rising of its own accord as he remembered a certain incident during his first time at Castle Black. “Isn’t he the man who almost drowned in a bowl of pea soup?”

 

“Aye,” the Donal Noye said again. “Thankfully it seems he’s forgotten and no one's been rushing to remind him. I suppose I'm as much a commander as we have now. The meanest of the cripples."

 

“You sell yourself short.”

 

“Better than being short. Who’d you piss off to get sent to the Wall anyway?”

 

It was Lancel who answered the former smith of Storm’s End. “Stannis Baratheon.”

 

Donal Noye chuckled. “I’d heard he’d declared himself king, along with Renly, Joffrey, Robb Stark, and Balon Greyjoy.”

 

“Renly’s dead,” Tyrion said. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard.”

 

“Word reaches the Wall but slowly,” Noye shook his head sadly. “Sad the hear about Renly. I remember when he used to dress up and pretend he was a wizard, or a kingsguard, or gods know what else. How’d he die?”

 

“In a battle at Storm’s End, against Stannis,” Tyrion sipped at his stew.

 

“Hmph.” If Donal Noye was upset about Renly’s death he didn’t show it. “That one, he was copper, bright and shiny, pretty to look at but not worth all that much at the end of the day. Stannis is pure iron, black and hard and strong, yes, but brittle, the way iron gets. He'll break before he bends. Only Robert was the true steel.”

 

“That time is long past,” Tyrion said. “Robert was nothing but rust by the time he died.”

 

“How’d that happen anyways? All we heard was that he died.”

 

“Hunting,” Lancel said. “He was hunting. He had too much to drink and a boar gutted him.”

 

_ Not bothering to mention who exactly gave Robert all that wine I see _ . Tyrion eyed the smith’s bulging muscles.  _ Can’t say I blame you coz _ .

 

“Hah! That sounds like Robert. You’d best get some sleep Tyrion. You’ve got the first watch tomorrow,” the smith stood up and began to lumber back to his former spot. “Someone’ll kick you awake in the morning.”

 

Tyrion closed his eyes. “I hate this place.”

 

The sun was still below the horizon when Tyrion walked out of the old Flint Barracks, a tumble down structure built from ancient stone. He kept a thick cloak wrapped tight around him over two layers of thick black wool, even so, the wind was cutting him to the bone. Tyrion took up the old axe he had taken from the armoury and set out to stand watch.  _ Which requires what exactly _ ?

 

Tyrion huffed. “I guess I’ll… make a circuit of the castle...” Tyrion pulled his cloak tighter and started his circuit. "And now my watch begins." It was half an hour after Tyrion’s watch began that anyone else came awake, as the first rays of sun broke the horizon Tyrion began to hear Donal Noye banging away in his smithy. A half hour after that some of the other brothers came down from the Wall, while others went up to replace them, climbing the great switchback stairs. It was half an hour after that that the first interesting thing happened, a rider coming from the south. Riding hard by the look of it. Tyrion limped forward on his twisted, cramped legs, and brandished his axe.

 

“Who goes there?” He called. The rider slowed as he came forward, it was a young man with a scruffy beard, he wore a sheepskin cloak, his leg was coated in dried blood, and he looked familiar. “Jon Snow?”

 

The bastard of Winterfell slowed to a stop before all but falling off his horse. “Tyrion? What are you-”

 

“-worry about that later Jon you need to see Maester Aemon. That wound looks bad.”

 

"There are wildlings coming," Jon told him, as Tyrion steadied his wounded brother. "From the south. We climbed the Wall..."

 

“Fuck you, Snow, you couldn’t have brought good news?”

 

 

Daenerys

The scouts of her khalasar had told Dany of the Yunkai’i host, but she had to see it for herself. Together with Ser Jorah Mormont, they rode to the top a sandstone ridge. "Near enough," he warned her as they reached the crest.

Dany reined in her silver and looked across the fields, to where the Yunkai’i host lay. The enemy camp sprawled across the road, blocking the path to Yunkai. She focused on them remembering Whitebeard’s lesson on how best to count the numbers of a foe. "Five thousand," she said after a moment.

"Or close enough to it," agreed Ser Jorah. "With those sellswords on the flanks. About three hundred men apiece."

Dany grimaced, her Unsullied traps had worked twice more after the first, but it hadn’t been long before the sellswords grew wise to the trick and avoided them. On the march to Yunkai her followers had killed near four hundred of the sellswords but at the cost of over thrice that number of freedmen. Still, she had their measure, they were fierce fighters but only so long as they were winning if the battle turned against them they would melt like frost on a summer day. Instead, she focused on the Yunkai’i in the center beneath their banners of a harpy grasping a whip and an iron collar in her talons. "Those are slave soldiers I think."

Ser Jorah grunted. "For the most part yes. But not the equal of Unsullied. Yunkai is known for training bed slaves, not warriors."

"So what do you think, can we beat this army?"

"Easily," he said.

"But not bloodlessly." Blood aplenty had soaked into the bricks of Astapor the day that city fell, though little of it belonged to her or hers. "We might win a battle here, but at such cost, we cannot take the city."

"That is ever a risk, Khaleesi. Astapor was complacent and vulnerable. Yunkai is forewarned."

"And if they have those new weapons..." Dany didn’t finish her thought, unwilling to let her mind create the horrors her people would face.

"I see no sign of any siege engines," Ser Jorah reassured her. "Whatever these weapons are we have only seen them on ships. Perhaps they cannot be brought onto land?"

"I do not want to risk my people’s lives on a perhaps."

"I fear you do not have much choice Khaleesi."

"I fear you’re right Ser Jorah. Often I heard my brother call sellswords cravens and fools, what do you think, will the sellswords fight or will they run?"

"The Second Sons are an old company, and not without valor, but under Mero, they've turned near as bad as the Brave Companions. Their captain is as dangerous to his employers as to his foes. That's why you find him out here. None of the Free Cities will hire him any longer. But like all such men he is a craven at heart, he’ll flee rather than risk his own skin for his employers."

"And the Stormcrows?"

"They’re a new company eager to prove themselves, and one of their captains is Ghiscari he likely had kin in Astapor, he’ll want to fight, but his men have weathered much in these last weeks, they’ve learned to fear the Unsullied, they’ll crack if you push them hard enough."

Dany considered.  _ Even if what Ser Jorah says about the sellswords is true I’ve ridden too long with Dothraki not to know what mounted warriors can do to foot _ .  _ The Unsullied would withstand their charge _ ,  _ but my freedmen would be slaughtered _ .  _ I’ll need to even the odds _ . "The slavers like to talk," she said. "Send word that I will hear them this evening in my tent."

"As you wish," Ser Jorah said. "But if they do not come..."

"They'll come. They will be curious to see the dragons and hear what I might have to say, and the clever ones will see it for a chance to gauge my strength." She wheeled her silver mare about. "I'll await their envoy in my pavilion."

Dany passed through the perimeter the Unsullied had established, the tents were going up in orderly rows, with her own tall golden pavilion at the center. A second encampment, five times the size, sprawling and chaotic, lay close beyond her own. In the second camp, there were no ditches, no tents, and no horselines, but there were sentries aplenty, the results of hard learned and bloody lessons. Those who had horses or mules slept beside them, for fear they might be stolen. Goats, sheep, and half-starved dogs wandered freely amongst hordes of women, children, and old men. Tens of thousands had left newly freed Astapor to follow her, and even after the thunderous weapons from the sea and the chaos of the night raids most had stayed rather than return to the high walls of Astapor.  _ I gave them the city, but most of them were too frightened to take it _ .

Arstan Whitebeard stood outside the entrance of her tent, while Strong Belwas sat crosslegged on the grass nearby, eating a bowl of figs. On the march, the duty of guarding her fell upon their shoulders for Jhogo, Aggo, and Rakharo were far too busy to be both Kos and bloodriders, and so she saw them but rarely as they reported what her khalasar of braidless boys and bentback old men had seen while scouting.

"Yunkai will have war," Dany told Whitebeard inside the pavilion. Irri and Jhiqui had covered the floor with carpets then lit a stick of incense to sweeten the dusty air. Drogon and Viserion were asleep atop some cushions, curled about each other, but Rhaegal perched on the edge of a closed chest.

Arstan tapped his staff on the ground. "A war you will win."

"There is no other option," Dany sat upon her couch and began to wait.

The envoys from Yunkai arrived as the sun was going down. There were fifty men on magnificent black horses and one on a great white camel. Their helms were twice as tall as their heads, so as not to crush the bizarre twists and towers and shapes of their oiled hair beneath. Their linen shirts and tunics were dyed a deep yellow and they sewed copper disks to their cloaks.

The man on the white camel named himself Grazdan mo Eraz. Lean and hard, he had a white smile such as Kraznys had worn until Drogon burned off his face. His hair was drawn up in a unicorn's horn that jutted from his brow, and his tokar was fringed with golden Myrish lace. "Ancient and glorious is Yunkai, the queen of cities," he said when Dany welcomed him to her tent. "Our walls are strong, our nobles proud and fierce, our common folk without fear. Ours is the blood of ancient Ghis, whose empire was old when Valyria was yet a squalling child. You were wise to sit and speak, Khaleesi. You shall find no easy conquest here."

"Good. My Unsullied will relish a bit of a fight." She looked to Grey Worm, who nodded.

Grazdan shrugged expansively. "If blood is what you wish, let it flow. I am told you have freed your eunuchs. Freedom means as much to an Unsullied as a hat to a haddock." He smiled at Grey Worm, but the eunuch might have been made of stone. "Those who survive we shall enslave again, and use to retake Astapor from the rabble. We can make a slave of you as well, do not doubt it. There are pleasure houses in Lys and Tyrosh where men would pay handsomely to bed the last Targaryen."

"It is good to see you know who I am," said Dany mildly.

"I pride myself on my knowledge of the savage senseless west," Grazdan spread his hands, a gesture of conciliation. "And yet, why should we speak so harshly to each other? It is true that you committed cruelties almost beyond reckoning in Astapor, but we of Yunkai are a most forgiving people. Your quarrel is not with us, Your Grace. Why squander your strength against our mighty walls when you will need every man to regain your father's throne in far Westeros? Yunkai wishes you only well in that endeavor. And to prove the truth of that, I have brought you a gift." He clapped his hands, and two of his escort came forward bearing a heavy cedar chest bound in bronze and gold. They set it at her feet. "Fifty thousand golden marks," Grazdan said smoothly. "Yours, as a gesture of friendship from the Wise Masters of Yunkai. Gold given freely is better than plunder bought with blood, surely? So I say to you, Daenerys Targaryen, take this chest, and go."

Dany pushed open the lid of the chest with a small slippered foot. It was full of gold coins, just as the envoy said. She grabbed a handful and let them run through her fingers. They shone brightly as they tumbled and fell. Most of them were new minted, stamped with a stepped pyramid on one face and the harpy of Ghis on the other. "Very pretty. I wonder how many chests like this I shall find when I take your city?"

He chuckled. "None, for that you shall never do."

"I have a gift for you as well," she slammed the chest shut. "Three days. On the morning of the third day, send out your slaves. All of them. Every man, woman, and child shall be given a weapon, and as much food, clothing, coin, and goods as he or she can carry. These they shall be allowed to choose freely from among their master's possessions, as payment for their years of servitude. When all the slaves have departed, you will open your gates and allow my Unsullied to enter and search your city, to make certain none remain in bondage. If you do this, Yunkai will not be burned or plundered, and none of your people shall be harmed. The Wise Masters will have the peace they desire and will have proved themselves to be very wise indeed. What say you?"

Grazdan smiled. "I say, you are mad."

"Am I?" Dany shrugged and said. "Dracarys."

The dragons answered. Rhaegal hissed and smoked, Viserion snapped, and Drogon spat swirling red and black flames. The flames swirled through the tent but failed to touch the Yunkai’i envoy. Nonetheless, the envoy had fallen in his haste to avoid the flames. "You swore I would have safe conduct!" The Yunkai’i envoy wailed.

"Do all the Yunkai'i whine so? Fear not for Drogon will not give you a warmer kiss, so long as you deliver up your slaves within three days. Now take your gold and go, and see that the Wise Masters hear my message."

Grazdan mo Eraz pointed a finger. "You shall rue this arrogance, whore. These little lizards will not keep you safe, I promise you. Yunkai does not stand alone and we have dragons of our own," he sneered as he left.

"I hope to meet them my children could use some new friends," she said with a confidence she did not feel. Dany closed her eyes as Grazdan departed, trying to calm herself. "Ser Jorah, what do you make of his claim."

"It’s," the knight shook his head. "It’s impossible, the man must be lying. Rumors spread quickly we would have heard of dragons if they had any. They would want to show them off to try and intimidate you Khaleesi."

"But why tell such an obvious lie?" Asked Whitebeard. "There must be some strain of truth to it."

"Words are wind," Dany said. "Whatever the truth of his words it matters not we must win this battle and force Yunkai to surrender. Ser Jorah, summon my bloodriders." Dany seated herself on a mound of cushions to await them, her dragons all about her. When they were assembled, she said. "An hour past midnight should be time enough."

"Yes, Khaleesi," said Rakharo. "Time for what?"

"To mount our attack."

Ser Jorah Mormont scowled. "You told Grazdan-"

"-that they had three days. They will not expect an attack tonight. We will take them under cover of this darkness."

"They will have scouts watching for us."

"And in the dark, they will see hundreds of campfires burning," said Dany. "If they see anything at all."

"Khaleesi," said Jhogo. "I will deal with these scouts. They are no riders, only slavers on horses."

"Just so," she agreed. "I think we should attack from three sides. Grey Worm, your Unsullied shall strike at them from right and left, while my Kos lead my horse in wedge for a thrust through their center followed by another force of Unsullied. Slave soldiers will never stand before mounted Dothraki." She smiled. "To be sure, I am only a young girl and know little of war. What do you think, my lords?"

"I think you are Rhaegar Targaryen's sister," Ser Jorah said with a rueful half smile.

"Aye," said Arstan Whitebeard. "And a queen as well."

It took an hour to work out all the details.  _ Now begins the most dangerous time _ , Dany thought  _ as her captains departed to their commands _ .  _ Is this to be my part in all battles waiting to hear of victory or defeat _ ?  _ As men like Ser Jorah _ ,  _ Grey Worm _ ,  _ Strong Belwas _ ,  _ Arstan _ , _ and my bloodriders fight my battles for me _ . Alone Dany sat in darkness and silence to wait for victory or defeat.

Ser Jorah came to her two hours after midnight, he was limping slightly but there was no blood.

"Victory or defeat?" Dany asked.

Ser Jorah knelt before her. "Victory," he said. "The sellswords fled rather than face the Unsullied again, and the slave soldiers couldn’t stand against an attack from one side, let alone three."

Dany smiled. "Spare all those who will pledge me their faith, be they sellsword or slave.

Ser Jorah bowed again. "Yes, Khaleesei."

The next day they marched the last three leagues to Yunkai. Save for being built from yellow bricks instead of red it was Astapor all over again, with the same crumbling walls and high stepped pyramids, and a great harpy mounted above its gates. The wall and towers swarmed with crossbowmen and slingers. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm deployed her men, Irri and Jhiqui raised her pavilion, and Dany sat down to wait.

Three days later the ships that had sent her fleet to the bottom of the ocean appeared on the horizon escorting a fleet that sailed under the harpy of Meereen, and the city gates remained shut.

 

 

Catelyn

Two thousand northmen crowded the narrow raised road of the causeway only four hundred yards from the moss covered towers and scattered stones of Moat Cailin.  Robb waited near the rear of the northern host, surrounded by his bodyguards and waiting to give the signal to attack. Beyond them were the Ironmen waiting behind the walls of Moat Cailin, every window, arrow slit, and crenellation of the three towers bristled with Ironmen armed with bows. Any attack from the south would end in disaster. Catelyn shifted her gaze past the death trap waiting for them and onto the shadowed, marshy, mist shrouded fields beyond the towers.

Slowly as the sun rose and burnt away the mist the shadows began to make themselves clear. A second host of northmen had gathered there, having been led through the swamps of the Neck by a hundred crannogmen guides sent by Lord Howland Reed. Robb had given Galbart Glover and Maege Mormont a thousand men and had had them follow the crannogmen through the secret paths of the Neck to attack Moat Cailin from the north. She couldn’t see the reactions of the Ironmen,  _ but I imagine they're not happy _ .

The attack from the north began at noon, the thousand foot advanced slowly towards the Gatehouse Tower keeping under the cover of mantlets and broad shields. The other towers which could so easily protect the third if attacked from the south could do nothing but watch as the northmen battered down the tower door with small rams. It seemed to take forever for the kraken of Greyjoy to fall from the battlements and be replaced by the direwolf of Stark, but it was only a few minutes at most.

“Lady Maege,” said Robb. “Send a messenger to the Children’s Tower and the Drunkard’s Tower, offer the ironmen a chance to yield and keep their lives.”

Ser Helman Tallhart snorted. “I fear you waste your time, Your Grace, the ironmen are madmen they’ll fight to the death.”

“They are mad,” Catelyn said. “But they aren’t fools, they know they can’t win they’ll surrender soon enough so that they can fight another day instead of dying today.”

“Lady Maege,” Robb nodded at the towers to reaffirm his orders.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Lady Maege rode off and before long a pair of riders were moving as swiftly as they could towards each tower. True to Catelyn’s prediction it took only a few minutes for the ironmen to begin leaving the towers and gathering on the muddy field.

Ser Helman departed to see to his men, while Robb and Catelyn left the Causeway, rode past the ruined towers and scattered blocks of basalt, and entered the marshy fields that lay to Moat Cailin’s north. Galbart Glover’s thousand were setting up the Northern camp, while the lords and commanders were readying their rooms within Moat Cailin’s three towers. On the field, armed men were still rooting through the dead. Only a few of the dead were northmen most were ironmen, though Catelyn only recognized some of the surcoats, the scythe of Harlaw, the brazier of Stonehouse, the kraken of Greyjoy, and many others. On the whole, the northmen seemed happy for the first time in weeks.  _ These men needed a victory _ .  _ Robb needed a victory _ .

Robb and Catelyn joined Galbart Glover, Maege Mormont, and Ser Helman Tallhart at the edge of the field. Beyond them were several hundred ironmen sitting on the damp ground and around them waited half again their number of northern soldiers. There was one ironman not far from the waiting northern lords, a tall man, with a beard, and a shaven head. Catelyn took a moment as she approached to puzzle out the man’s surcoat,  _ a hand and lightning bolts House Kenning of Harlaw I think _ .

As Catelyn approached Galbart Glover signaled to one of his sworn swords, who cuffed the ironman and said. “Tell His Grace what you told Master Galbart.”

The ironman glared at the soldier before speaking. “King Balon is dead.”

Robb stiffened. “So Theon is king then?”

“No, if he’s not dead he’s as good as it,” he spat. “The bastard of the Dreadfort captured him and if half what I’ve heard about the bastard is true then Prince Theon won’t be much good for anything.”

“So Asha then Theon’s sister?”

The ironman laughed. “No woman can rule the Iron Islands. The Damphair has called for a kingsmoot, the first in three hundred years.”

“And that’s why Moat Cailin is empty? All your captains have gone back to the Iron Islands to choose a new king?”

“Yes,” the ironman said sullenly.

“And who are you to know such things?”

“Ralf Kenning, Captain of the  _ Drowned Lightning _ , I serve Lord Victarion, though by now he’s likely King Victarion.”

“Who else is trying to become king?”

Ralf Kenning shrugged. “I don’t know, any captain who thinks he can do it.”

Robb shook his head. “That’s helpful,” he voice thick with sarcasm.”

Ralf Kenning shrugged. “If you wanted helpful you’d let me go.”

“Tell me about the North first.”

Ralf Kenning shrugged. “What’s there to say, it’s cold, it’s poor, and everything’s trying to kill us.”

“What do you know about Manderly, Bolton, Dustin, Ryswell and the other houses. Where their banners are...” for a moment it looked like Robb was going to vomit. “Which king they kneel too.”

Ralf Kenning had the good sense not to poke at Robb for those last words. The ironman captain spat on the muddy ground. “Hard to say it’s been near two weeks since any messengers came. Last I heard the Dustins and Ryswells were running around the western shores chasing the Goodbrothers and Merlyns. The Bastard of Bolton burned Winterfell,” he shrugged. “And Manderly’s just been sitting on his fat arse as far as I can tell.”

Robb turned to Maege Mormont. “How many prisoners are there?”

“There were near three hundred in the castle when they surrendered, Your Grace.”

“Take their weapons, their armour, and their loot, then put a hundred men to take them back to their ships. Strip their ships of everything they don’t need to get back to the Iron Islands.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the lady of Bear Isle bowed her head.

Ralf Kenning came to his feet and made a bow of his own. “Your Grace.”

Robb returned with a perfunctory nod. “My lord,” he turned his horse to face Catelyn and rode up next to her. “I’d like to see you tonight mother.”

Catelyn smiled. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Robb smiled in turn before turning to manage his soldiers.

Late in the evening one of her guards put his head into her tent. “Mi’lady, His Grace has come to see you.”

“A moment please,” Catelyn pushed and pulled herself into a more upright position. “Alright.”

Robb entered the tent, ducking beneath the flaps he settled himself on Catelyn’s wheeled chair, doffing his fur cloak and letting it hang over the back, he was wearing a green, soft, wool doublet that left his arms bare. It was the first time Catelyn had gotten a chance to see his wound up close. The wound was a massive scab, swollen and red running the length of Robb’s arm from the shoulder to the stump, just above where his elbow should have been.

Catelyn smiled. “Congratulations on your victory. I think you’re the first person to ever take Moat Cailin from the south.”

Robb snorted. “I took it from the north.”

“That’s not what the songs will say.”

Robb smiled but paused and licked his lips. “What do I do now?”

“Bend the knee,” Catelyn said gently. “If you don’t-”

“-and if I do.” Robb interrupted her. “Robett Glover. Daecy Mormont. Olyvar Frey. Rickard Karstark. Torrhen Karstark. Eddard Karstark. Wylis Manderly. Wendel Manderly. The Greatjon. The Smalljon. And thousands more men whose names I’ll never know. They all died for me. They all died for the North. If I bend the knee to Stannis then… then they died for nothing. Then the war was pointless. Then I let,” a sob escaped him. “Then I let Bran and Rickon die for nothing.”

Catelyn reached out and took her son’s hand in her’s. “It wasn’t your fault, Theon betrayed you and murdered them.” She shook her head. “I fear that if the war continues then you will die for nothing.”

“I… I can’t surrender”

“What then? Fight Bolton and Karstark? Even if you win then once Stannis defeats the Lannisters he’ll come for you with all the might. Stannis gave Edmure, gave you, one last chance to bend the knee, do as Edmure did bend the knee for the sake of your people.”

Robb paused a moment, his eyes narrowed. “How do you know what terms Stannis gave Edmure? How do you know Stannis offered one last chance?” His voice was low and dangerous like a wolf’s growl before it was about to strike.

Catelyn froze. “I...”

“He told you didn’t he?” Robb stood from the chair, still holding her hand in his.

“Robb-”

“-Didn’t he!” Robb snarled squeezing her hand. “What happened to family!” He squeezed her hand even tighter. “What happened to duty!” Catelyn cried as Robb pulled her from her bed. “What happened to honour!” Robb’s face was twisted by his sudden rage.

“Robb. Robb please you’re hurting me!”

Robb’s anger seemed to disappear as quickly as it had arrived. “I. I. I’m sorry. I. I didn't mean...” Robb fled her tent not even remembering to take his cloak.

Catelyn lay still on the ground for several long moments, all but helpless until her guard entered the tent.

"Mi'lady, what happened? What did the king-"

"-help me up and do not speak of this to anyone," Catelyn pushed herself up as the guard helped her back into her bed.  _ What's happened to you my son _ ?


	15. Chapter 14 (Daven, Davos, Mathis, Melisandre)

Daven  
  
_What madness has come over Lord Mace_? Daven rode at the head his guard, a fine selection of highborn cousins, third sons, and landless knights, fierce fighters to the last and loyal to the bone, and not far from the dragonmen commanded by Ser Murton Lannys. Together they made up a fraction of the fifteen thousand strong vanguard, which was commanded by Ser Kevan Lannister. Aside from Daven, the other major commanders were Ser Harys Swyft, Ser Addam Marbrand, Ser Mern Oakheart, Lady Arwen’s eldest son and heir, Lord Phillip Foot, and Lord Mathis Rowan.  
  
They had crossed the Mander near four hours past and had continued east following the course of the Cockleswent to where Lord Mace and Ser Garlan were locked in battle with Lord Stannis. _A battle they are losing_. At a trumpet's call, Daven departed his guard and the dragonmen, leaving them under the command of Ser Murton Lannys, and rode to join Ser Kevan, and his squire Gunthor Rowan, Lord Mathis’ son, on the crest of a low hill, from which they could gain a clearer picture of the battle.  
  
Ser Addam Marbrand shook his head. “Seven Hells but this looks bad.”  
  
Daven nodded his head in silent agreement. The combined Tyrell army, led by Lord Mace and Ser Garlan, had been split near in half by Stannis’ dragonmen and even as they watched the Fossoway knights moved to exploit the gap. The flanks were in no better shape as they fell back under the furious rebel assault. The trail of bodies the started in the river, continued onto the banks, into the fields, and was now behind the rebel lines. It was a bloody trail of the dead and dying, the result of failed attempts to hold the line. A crackle of dragonfire erupted from a large rectangular block that was near the center of Stannis’ army, adding to the thick cloud of smoke that was hanging still in the windless air.  
  
“Lord Mace is five minutes from disaster,” Daven said, his statement was accompanied by nods and utterances of agreement from the other lords, knights, and commanders, save for Ser Bronn Wolfsbane who said nothing and whose face revealed nothing, and Lord Mathis Rowan who shook his head in disagreement.  
  
“The difference between disaster and victory is a fine line, Ser Daven,” said the Lord of Goldengrove. “Lord Stannis’ flanks are vulnerable.”  
  
“Aye, they are,” Ser Kevan agreed quietly, the aging man turned to face his commanders. “Ser Daven take your dragonmen and punch a hole in the enemy’s right, Ser Bronn will be under your command as will Ser Harys Swyft.”  
  
Daven joined Ser Bronn and Ser Harys in giving a low bow from his saddle.  
  
Ser Kevan turned to face the heirs to Ashemark and Old Oak. “Ser Addam and Ser Mern you will sweep around and savage Stannis’ left flank.”  
  
“Yes Ser Kevan,” said Ser Addam. Ser Mern simply gave a slow nod of his head.  
  
“Lord Mathis you and I will take the center and smash Lord Fossoway and after that, you’ll deal with the dragons since you’ve faced them before.  
  
If Lord Mathis was nervous about facing the weapons that had destroyed Renly’s army he didn’t show it. “We’ll stop Stannis’ advance cold then throw him back across the Cockleswent,” he declared.  
  
Daven hadn’t wanted to waste a moment so he had already turned his horse around to ride back to his men, but he turned around and shouted back a jape to the other commanders. “And send him to bed without supper!”  
  
Daven rode off to the sound of their laughter. Beside him, the chinless Ser Harys Swyft did his best to keep up, while Ser Bronn Wolfsbane, followed like a shadow. Ser Bronn had risen quickly in a short time, it seemed Lord Tywin intended for him to replace the dead Ser Gregor as his favourite attack dog. _He’s uncouth_ , _callous_ , _dangerous_ , _and utterly amoral_. _No wonder Lord Tywin likes him_. Daven smiled. _He’s also clever_ , _quick_ , _and an excellent fighter_. _No wonder I like him_. Daven rode quickly travelling across the field to where Ser Harys Swyft’s foot was marching, splitting off from the main column.  
  
Daven came to a swift halt and addressed the other two knights. “Sers, meet me by the dragonmen as soon as you’ve seen to your commands.”  
  
“Of course Ser Daven,” answered Ser Harys.  
  
Ser Bronn grinned. “Aye Ser.”  
  
The two knights, one of an ancient heritage and one a former sellsword, rode off to see to their troops, while Daven made his own path back to the dragonmen and his guard. Daven dismounted and handed his reins to his squire, a lad named Terrence Lannister, of the Lannisport Lannisters. He joined the dragonmen, who were gathering three hundred yards from the right flank of the rebel host, within the shadow of a hill. Lord Tywin had been generous to the men, each had been gifted a new brigandine, a small steel shield emblazoned with a golden lion, and a sword, axe, mace, or warhammer, depending on their preference.  
  
Daven marched the line clapping shoulders and trading japes. “Load with two balls,” he commanded of Ser Murton Lannys. “We need to give these rebels a nasty surprise.”  
  
“Aye Ser,” chuckled Ser Murton.  
  
“Good man,” Daven clapped him on the shoulder and returned to his horse to meet with the quickly approaching Ser Bronn and Ser Harys. “Ser Bronn have your riders form up on each flank of the dragonmen after they’ve given the enemy a volley charge in and smash that part of the line. Ser Harys spread your men out and attack along the rest of the line don’t give them a chance to shift things about. Ser Bronn I assume I’m right in guessing you won’t need directions on what to do once you’ve broken through their lines?”  
  
“Oh no Ser, my boys will tear them up from the rear something fierce.”  
  
“Excellent. Ser Harys keep on them once they’ve started to break don’t give them any respite, chase them back into the river.”  
  
“Of course Ser Daven.”  
  
“I’ll stick close to the dragonmen should you have need of me. Now, let's be about our business shall we,” Daven spurred his horse and joined his guard in gathering behind the line of dragonmen.  
  
As Daven waited impatiently for the Ser Harys’ foot and Ser Bronn’s riders to move into place, his hand rose without thinking to twist its fingers through his beard and his mind wandered to more melancholy thoughts. _I don’t think Mother could bear it if I died to day_ , _not after Father_. _At least she’d have Cerenna and Myrielle to look out for her_... _and Sansa_... _my widow_. _Though how much comfort she’d be willing to give I know not_. Sansa had spoken quietly that night but in his memory, the word seemed to echo off the walls, it was so loud. _Yes_ , she’d said, _yes I hate you_. _If I die today I’ll leave my wife a widow mayhaps that will be the only thing I can give her that will make her happy_.  
  
Daven shook his head to dismiss such dismal thoughts and, after a quick look around to confirm everyone was in position, gave a signal to his trumpeter to sound the advance. Along the line, trumpets continued the call and captains and sergeants shouted at their men, Ser Murton himself commanded the dragonmen to begin their own advance, and soon thousands of armoured and armed men began to march towards the foe, Ser Bronn’s men came up forming a wing just behind each dragonman flank, and beyond them the hurrying western foot flanked them. As one they crested the top of the low hill and came within sight of the rebel army. The foe was slowly turning about to face them. They were Stormlands men infantry armed with spears, axes, and shields. They were forming a wall of steel and bodies to guard the rebel flank and were only a hundred yards away.  
  
At fifty yards Ser Murton gave his next command. “Stop!” The dragonmen stopped. “Ready!” He shouted, as one the dragonmen hoisted their hand-dragons off their shoulders and readied them. “Aim!” Daven was pleased to see the rebel troops were already beginning to tremble and shake. _They know what these weapons are and they know what’s coming next_. Ser Murton shouted. “FIRE!” And seven hundred hand-dragons roared fire and death at the enemy, the smoke made a foul smelling shroud in the air, and the ground began to shake as Ser Bronn’s cavalry charged from either side of the dragonmen and into what Daven imagined as the bloodied and broken remnants of the Baratheon lines. The growing sound of the clash of battle swelled as Ser Harys’ foot made contact along the enemy line.  
  
Daven clapped Ser Murton in the back. “Well done Ser well done! Reload and advance shoot any enemy that seems to happy,” Daven hefted his lance and turned to address his guard. “Come lads! Once more into the fray!” The guards cheered as Daven led them in following Ser Bronn’s own charge. They passed through the smoke and Daven saw the carnage the dragonmen and Ser Bronn had wrought. The riders had smashed through the rebel line and were riding free beyond it, the rebels were crumbling as they came under attack from all sides. Daven waved his lance again and led his men into the exposed flank of a square of Buckler spearmen.  
  
Daven’s lance struck high in a man’s chest, easily breaking through the footman’s mail armour and reappearing out of his back. Daven dropped the lance and drew his sword even as his war horse trampled over another rebel. Under attack from three sides, it was not long before the Bucklers began to rout and they spread their terror to their neighbours.  
  
As the rebel right collapsed Daven pulled up and stood in his stirrups. “Hah! Victory! Victory and King Joffrey!”

 

Davos  
  
Davos gritted his teeth as the rotten stench of the dragon smoke pervaded the air. Dragonfire crackled all around Davos. The ranks of two thousand dragonmen and three thousand footmen armed with pikes, halberds, billhooks, and all manner of polearms, surrounded him in a great square, dragonshot firing wildly in all directions at the enemy closing in around them.  
  
Davos pulled his horse around, as he tried to keep an eye on every direction. Bitterly, he remembered their successes earlier in the day when the dragonmen had thrown back the foot and horse of the Tyrells, opening up their ranks to Lord Owen Fossoway’s charge that had near broken the enemy in half. The charge that had been swiftly followed by fifteen thousand foot under Ser Erren Florent, Lord Ralph Buckler, and Lord Alesander Staedmon, and lastly the dragonmen themselves who stayed in reserve to better conserve the precious black powder. _Barely five weeks from King’s Landing and we’re already short on black powder_. Another volley crashed into the mass of Oakheart infantry. The smoke was too thick for Davos to see the results but he knew what he would have seen, blood and death.  
  
_Everything has gone wrong and gone wrong so quickly_. The Lannisters had come over a hill on the right and had stormed into the battle and since then there had only been scattered messages from the other commanders, and what news Davos received was all but useless. _However going by the Lannister and Rowan horse in front I’d wager Ser Erren’s foot is dead or fled_. What little more he’d been able to piece together showed that the enemy knights had smashed into both flanks and had shattered the center.  
  
Another crackle of dragonfire echoed to his right, but it seemed strangely distant. _What_? Before Davos could even finish his thought a wave of death came through the ranks of his men. Screaming lead balls sundering armour, flesh, and bone, and sending blood flying. The dead and wounded alike fell, though the dead were mercifully silent.  
  
“Return fire!” He shouted as loudly as he could. “Cut down the rebels!” Davos didn’t know if it was his command that prompted it or simply the initiative of his captains but several of the companies began to shift so as to open fire on the rebels.  
  
Without warning the still air came to life with a wing that blew the bulk of the smoke away. Across the field, the Davos saw rebel dragonmen letting volleys fly into the ranks of Davos’ men. Just as Davos’ own men were doing to the enemy. Amongst the browns and greys of the common soldiers was a flash of gold and crimson. _A Lannister most likely_ , _though which of that vast family I have no idea_. It seemed the foe had caught sight of Davos as well for he raised his longsword in a salute. After a moment's hesitation, the Davos did the same, just as the wind died and the smoke took back the air.  
  
_This can’t continue_. Davos grabbed the attention of his messengers, four young boys, barely older than Devan. “Retreat, tell the captains to retreat across the river, but to hold the formation if they value their lives!” The boys ran as fast as they could and for a moment Davos let himself breathe as the smoke swirled. _This is just a ship in rough seas and it’s time to make for port_. He tried to ignore the little voice at the back of his mind that said that unlike an enemy army the storm wasn’t trying to kill you.  
  
Davos waited nervously as the battle continued to rage around him. Three more volleys erupted from the Lannister dragonmen before Davos’ greater numbers saw them off and slowly ever so slowly the great block of men began to move northwards shedding blood, smoke, and the dead at every step. The formation moved slowly and fitfully some companies moving faster and some slower as they stopped to fight the enemy and fire hand-dragons into the smoke.  
  
It didn’t take long for Davos’ captains to start sending messengers of their own. “Ser Aemon Thunder says he’s low on black powder,” the first said. “Ser Godry Farring says he’s out of black powder,” said the second. A half a dozen more came with similar messages.  
  
“Ichiro,” Davos turned in his saddle to speak to his advisor who wore a queer mix of Beikango and Westerosi armour and weapons. “Break into the emergency reserves.”  
  
Ichiro was stone faced. “The reserves are almost gone.”  
  
_Fuck_. “They,” Davos pointed at the enemy. “Don’t know that. Get every bag, every little barrel, and make a big show of loading every hand-dragon, but keep them in reserve for when they try to charge again.”  
  
“Yes lord,” Ichiro bowed and smiled slightly.  
  
Davos turned back to face the smoke and the foe. _Hopefully_ , _that will be enough to hold them back_. As Davos’ commands took effect his men continued their slow march towards the Cockleswent. With the dragons down to their last bits of black powder, the smoke was clearing giving Davos a clearer view of the battle. All around them the thousands of foot and horse that had crossed the river before the dragonmen were in all but full flight and paying the price for it as the enemy knights rode them down. Even so, there were other islands of order like Davos’ own force. In particular, a large block of troops on the left was holding steady beneath the black dagger and red heart banners of Lord Alesander Staedmon. The right and center under Ser Erren Florent and Lord Ralph Buckler were in a shambles. Smashed beneath the might of Lord Rowan’s knights and the Lannister dragonmen. The former of which was rallying beneath their lord’s gold and silver banner, readying for another charge, all that opposed them was Davos’ dragonmen and several thousand screaming and fleeing foot.  
  
With the left flank and the center beaten apart, the enemy turned their full attention on Davos and his dragonmen. It was enemy archers that came forward now, longbowmen from the marches, crossbowmen from elsewhere, and the Lannister dragonmen made their return. The arrows, bolts, and balls began to fall and Davos’ dragonmen returned fire, reaping a dreadful toll upon the enemy, but their retreat quickly slowed to a crawl, and the dragonmen began to run lower and lower on black powder until at last the sputtering dragonfire ceased. “Pikemen forward!” Davos commanded. “Dragonmen to the rear!” Davos’ men hurried to obey, even as the enemy infantry closed in dragging the retreat to a halt as the companies fought, and failed, to stay in a cohesive formation. But even as the enemy attacks mounted and defeat seemed inevitable, relief came.  
  
The enemy advance was broken by a deafening roar that thundered through the air following in the wake of the ball of iron that the dragon had sent flying into the enemy, dirt, blood, and limbs made a gory path behind the dragon-shot. Davos gritted his teeth in savage satisfaction as the mere sound of _Balerion’s_ roar brought the enemy to a halt. _Balerion’s_ roar was the first of many as the dragons let loose their fury one by one. The battle was turning back again as, in addition to the dragons, reinforcements were crossing the river, strong blocks of Stormlander and Reachmen infantry ready to hold back the enemy tide and guard Davos’ flanks. As the reinforcements joined his beleaguered force and the battle began in earnest once again Davos felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. _It’s done we can win this_. Even the broken men from the flanks and the center were beginning to rally.  
  
Davos’ horse reared as without warning a massive explosion of a different kind rocked the world it came from the hill across the river, where the dragons were firing. Had been firing, for even as the echo of the first explosion was still hanging in the air it was quickly followed by two more of a slightly different timbre than the first. _The dragons_. It seemed Davos wasn’t the only person to come to that conclusion as the foe began to roar in triumph and surge forward smashing into the men who were just beginning to rally sending them back into a fleeing panic.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
Ichiro answered. “Sometimes after much use the dragons grow weak and they…” Ichiro trailed off as the results were obvious to anyone with ears.  
  
“Can they be repaired?” Davos felt he knew the answer but he had to ask anyway.  
  
Ichiro shook his head. “No. At least not in time to make a difference here and now.”  
  
Davos gritted his teeth, trying not to let his frustration show as the enemy knights began to charge the shaken and disordered pikemen. He tried to shout over the din of battle. “Pikes! Hold! Hold steady!” His captains and their sergeants were shouting as well, but even as the pikemen tried to ready themselves to meet the enemy charge a wave of screaming, fleeing, routing men fleeing the weight of the charge were driven into them, the broken remnants of the center and the flanks that had so recently been rallying. The formation held for a moment but then seemed to melt as the routing men forced their way inside and spread their panic, as the foe, glorious and terrible in their victory, crashed into them. Davos saw men sent flying by the power of the charge, men who were spat upon lances like chickens. The lines of pike and hand-dragon that had once surrounded Davos seemed to split open like a ship smashed by a ram, letting the enemy come crashing through.  
  
Davos brandished his sword and reached up to pull his visor down, but the damn thing caught on something, as it near always did. Davos pulled a second time, a third time, and then gave up. _Seven Hells but I hate this helmet_! Davos screamed and awkwardly swung his longsword at the face of a foeman’s horse. The beast balked and reared threw its rider off balance and letting a footman haul him off with a billhook.  
  
Davos turned and stabbed at another knight but his blade scraped uselessly off the man’s armoured shoulder. Ichiro cut with his curved foreign blade but against the plate armoured knights of the Reach, it was near useless. _Not that my longsword is much better_ , Davos thought grimly as he awkwardly parried a lance thrust.  
  
Davos’ horse shuddered and stumbled as a knight in gold and silver armour rammed his massive destrier into Davos’ smaller steed. He slashed overhand at Davos with a longsword, but Davos managed to parry with his own blade. The knight swung again, but Davos was too slow to parry again so he flung himself backwards in his saddle to avoid the blow. He tried to bring his sword up into the teeth of his foe’s horse, but even as he tried a footman in gold and silver grabbed his arm. The knight attacked again and Davos blocked with the steel gauntlet of his left arm, leaving it numb. He heard and felt a warhammer smash into his armoured shoulder, the spike pushing through a gap and sticking in his flesh. He screamed as his blood began to flow from the wound, his arm curled up uselessly in pain. The silver knight made another thrust, aiming for Davos’ unprotected face. Unbidden he recalled his wife’s smile. _Marya_ …  
  
There was a single instant of pain and then there was nothing.

 

Mathis  
  
With a victorious roar and a spurt of blood, Mathis pulled his longsword free of the red ruin that had been the Onion Knight’s face. He whirled his blade back around and aimed it at a dragonman’s neck, but the man raised his axe to block, so Mathis shifted slightly and his sword cut deep into the man’s arm.  
  
Mathis smiled, _they’re crumbling_ , _I can feel it_ , _the heart’s going out of them_. “Hack them down!” He shouted. “Hack them down!” Mathis followed his own advice and swung his sword at a fleeing dragonman, his sword deflected off the helm but caught the shoulder and sent the man to the ground nonetheless. Mathis destrier reared and smashed steel shod hooves onto the poor bastard’s back. Mathis laughed as he parried a furious blow from the curved sword of some foreign sellsword. The man swung thrice more but Mathis parried each blow before kicking back his spurs and sending his destrier surging forward again. The armoured bulk of the horse throwing the foreigner and his own little horse back and into the mass of fleeing men.  
  
Mathis pulled hard on the reins and squeezed with his knees ordering his steed to join his charging knights and to follow the fleeing foe into the Cockleswent. “Hack them down! Hack them down!”  
  
The chant began to catch and soon it seemed that the whole army was shouting. “HACK THEM DOWN! HACK THEM DOWN! HACK THEM DOWN!”  
  
Mathis grinned. _Songs will be sung of this day_! _Songs will be sung of me_! _The man who crushed the dragons_! His destrier’s hooves landed in the river sending the cool water flying in a spray. The river was red and brown with blood and churned up mud from countless feet and hooves. The Baratheon center was broken the dragons crushed under hoof. “Victory! Victory!”  
  
His men joined him in his joy. “VICTORY!”  
  
At last Mathis took a moment to breathe and exult in his victory. And it was _his_ victory. Rowan men had broken the Fossoway traitors, Rowan men had overridden the Florent led foot, it was Rowan men that had shattered the dragons, and it was Rowan men who had carried on and battered through straight to the river. It was left to the Lannisters and Tyrells to follow them and finish off what was left of the rebels.  
  
“Songs men! Songs will be sung of this day! Songs will be sung of YOU!”  
  
“HURRAH! ROWAN! LORD MATHIS!”  
  
Mathis wheeled around to survey what was happening elsewhere on the battlefield. The smoke was still a bit too thick to make out the enemy banners accurately but Mathis thought the left was held by Crownlanders and the right by Stormlanders. The enemy flanks were holding for the moment but that would change when his men fell upon them from the rear. Some were already doing that but most were chasing the dragonmen and the remnants of the Florent center into the river. Mathis laughed and smiled at their battle lust. _Let them have their fun it’s not every day you win a war_! Mathis stopped laughing when the wind rose again and cleared the smoke enough to see clear across the river.  
  
With the breaking of the dragonmen and the explosions that had silenced the dragons, the smoke had been steadily growing thinner and thinner. Now with the wind, it was thin enough that Mathis could see across the river and up the low hill on the northern bank. But more importantly, see what was coming down it. Too late Mathis remembered Stannis’ reserve. Time seemed to slow as Mathis picked out the individual banners of all the knights pouring down the slope. _Florents_ , _Storm’s End and Dragonstone men_ , _and the household guard of Stannis himself_. In the lead of this great charge was a small diamond of fluttering white cloaks surrounding a shimmer of gold. _Throwing caution to the wind_? _That’s not like you Stannis_. _No time to worry about it though_.  
  
Mathis gripped his reins, wheeled his destrier around, stood his stirrups, and shouted. “Come around! Form ranks! Face the charge! Come on men!”  
  
But over the noise of battle most of them didn’t hear him and in the glory of victory, many didn’t notice their impending doom. The enemy was breaking, the enemy was running, and every instinct in their bodies was screaming at them to break ranks and give chase, to kill, to loot, to let the Warrior and the Stranger run loose over the battlefield. _Mother have mercy_.  
  
“Come on together men! Come together!” The enemy was growing closer their hooves were thundering in the air, growing louder and louder. At last Mathis’ desperate shouting was drawing the attention of some at least but not enough to stop what was coming, only a few hundred out of thousands.  
  
The enemy charge drew closer and the thunder of hooves and the scream of war cries. “STANNIS KING! OURS IS THE FURY!” Grew too loud to be ignored. Other lords and knights joined Mathis in screaming for order, to join ranks, to face the charge, but it was too little too late. The sudden shift in fortune had stolen the heart from the men, replacing it with despair, as the Baratheons bore down on them.  
  
_So close_ , _so fucking close_.  
  
The charge struck home smashing into the wavering men of the Reach and the West and sent them running back across the river. But not everyone fled, Mathis knew that there were small pockets of order in the churning mass of chaos. _If the charge can be checked just enough perhaps the men can rally_. _Perhaps a victory can still be won_. Mathis raised his sword, kicked his destrier forward, and led his household knights into the teeth of the charge.  
  
Mathis saw Ser Winston Morsey, an old, but still fierce man, who had taught him how to ride a horse and hold a lance, take a lance in the throat, a Baratheon man’s horse took a lance to the neck sending the man flying off his horse, a Florent had his leg near ripped off by an axe, and Mathis aimed his charge at a Baratheon man aiming a lance at Mathis’ steed. At the last moment, Mathis’ massive destrier leapt forward, throwing off the aim of the Baratheon man and letting his lance pass harmlessly by Mathis’ right knee. Mathis responded with a lunge at the man’s side, aiming for the gap between the plates, but the man twisted and the blade skidded harmlessly along the man’s backplate.  
  
Mathis began to whirl around in his saddle to make a second pass at the man but was cut off by the arrival of a white scaled and white armoured kingsguard. It was luck alone that saved Mathis life as he raised his sword the strike at the kingsguard he, by chance, deflected the blow Stannis Baratheon had aimed at the back of his neck, instead, it skidded across his pauldron. Mathis turned meaning to recover and strike a blow of his own, but he was forced to parry again, and again, and again. The sound of battle was being drowned out by Stannis’ wordless scream of fury. The water splashed high between them as their warhorses maneuvered around the river.  
  
Mathis had seen Stannis Baratheon fight in earnest once before on Great Wyk during the Greyjoy Rebellion. That time the younger brother of Robert had fought with a cold focus, striking swiftly and precisely. _But not this time_. This time Stannis was still precise, but there was nothing cold about him. Stannis was fighting like his brother, like Robert, the Demon of the Trident returned, the fury of the storm unleashed.  
  
The Baratheon rained down blows upon Mathis, who was barely able to block and parry them let alone try a counter strike. The Valyrian Steel of Stannis’ new blade slammed into Mathis own sword again and again and again, sending tiny slivers of castle steel flying with every strike. With sudden dread Mathis realised, _I’m going to die here_. Mathis’ salvation came in the form of one of his knights, a young lad named Barthen, who attacked Stannis’ left side. Stannis wasted no time in damn near cutting the poor lad’s head off. But Barthen had distracted the terror long enough for Mathis to pull his destrier around and make his retreat. As Mathis fled he turned to get one last look at Stannis and quickly turned it into a full body flinch as he saw Stannis brandishing a small had-dragon at him. He never heard the crack of the black powder all he felt was pain as his left leg exploded in an eruption of blood and splintered bone.  
  
Mathis felt someone else's hand on his reins, he hadn’t realised he’d dropped them. Mathis forced his eyes open to see who had taken them. Through tear wracked eyes he saw the gold tree on silver of his house. Oh good. Mathis closed his eyes again when he opened them again he was laying down somewhere there was still smoke in the air, but it was wood smoke, not dragon smoke. He blinked his bleary eyes and tried to move, but his leg was fixed in place. Before he could do much more a hand pushed on his chest to keep him down. It belonged to a young maester Mathis didn’t recognize. “Stay still my lord, you were gravely hurt in the battle.”  
  
“Is it done?”  
  
“My lord?”  
  
“The battle, is it done?”  
  
“In part my lord.”  
  
_What does he mean by that_? “Did we win?”  
  
“No one wins in war, my lord.”  
  
_Great a poet_. “Fuck off and tell me who won.”  
  
The maester was silent again. “That has yet to be determined my lord, today was only the first day of battle.”  
  
Mathis sighed. _Damn_. “Could you bring my son to me?”  
  
“Of course my lord,” the maester left.

 

Melisandre  
  
It was the custom of the Beikango to write and read a poem at the death of a man of worth, a man of honour, of a good man, of a friend. With the permission of Stannis Baratheon, though the king had not come to see the ceremony, Ichiro did just that to honour Lord Davos Seaworth. Ichiro stood tall and straight, his white funeral robes blowing in the evening wind, a thin piece of paper, on which the poem was written, in his hand. The foreigner held his hands out before him, the poem above the chest of the dead man, as he read loudly and clearly in the Common Tongue of Westeros. _His accent has improved_.  
  
Many places you have seen  
Many storms you have weathered  
The road is now calling  
At last to paths that lead home  
I will say this last goodbye  
  
Ichiro bent over Davos and placed the poem beneath his folded arms. Seconds later the Silent Sisters took their charge and put him within one of their tents, where they would strip flesh from bone and then return Davos Seaworth to his wife. Melisandre didn’t stay to witness the rest of the ceremony for the other dead highborn. _It’s a meaningless illusion created by the Great Other_.  
  
Instead, she left to walk the waters of the Cockleswent where thousands had died and thousands more had been injured, where three of the dragons had been destroyed by their own fire, taking dozens of precious handlers with them. Much of the black powder was gone and with the death of Davos Seaworth, the dragonmen had been left leaderless and demoralised. Melisandre stepped past the last of the pickets and began to walk down the gentle slope of the hill that ran to the Cockleswent. Most of the dead had been cleared away but the refuse of battle, broken weapons, scattered arrows and dragonballs, scraps of armour, and pieces of bloody flesh, still littered both sides of the river. _Stannis has snatched a stalemate from the jaws of disaster_. _Even so_ , _it was only the benevolence of the Lord of Light that preserved us by casting the shadow of doubt into Lord Tywin’s mind_. After Stannis’ charge, it had not taken long for both sides to retreat to their camps and tend to their wounds. Barely an hour later the main elements of Lord Tywin’s host had begun arriving. _If he had pressed an attack then Stannis would have surely lost and without him_ , _the Great Other would take the world_.  
  
Melisandre stepped off the riverbank and into the cool waters of the Cockleswent. The cool water babbled over the rocks and the mud. Beyond the waters lay the great host of Lord Tywin, near twice the size of Azor Ahai reborn’s, waiting for the dawn. _This river cannot protect Stannis the bank is too low_ , _the river too shallow_ , _what defences there are_ , _are not strong enough_ , _and his army is too tired_ , _too hurt_... _too faithless_. She turned leaving the river and the ruination of so many behind her. _I must light the nightfire and pray for the dead_.  
  
Safely back inside the guarded camp Melisandre knelt and pushed the brightly burning torch into the kindling and within seconds the great pyre where the dead had been gathered was burning. Melisandre straightened and surveyed the living faithful who had gathered around the pyre. _So few_ , _so few are faithful_ , _and no great lords among them_. It shamed Melisandre to think of converts in such a way but it would take more than household knights and lesser sons like Clayton Suggs, Patrek of King’s Mountain, Benethon Scales, or Malegorn of Redpool to spread the true faith in Westeros. Even the conversion of Queen Selyse was of limited use, for she was vain and unpopular at best. _At the least_ , _Richard Horpe and Justin Massey have managed to rise high_.  
  
Through force of will Melisandre pushed her worries away, she breathed deeply, and began her nightly prayers first in High Valyrian, then in the tongue of Asshai, and lastly in the Common Tongue of Westeros. “R’hllor, come to us in our darkness,” she called. “Lord of Light defend us, protect us, and shelter us in Your radiance in this dark hour. Cast Your fiery gaze upon the foe and burn them as they fester in darkness and treachery. For the night is dark and full of terrors,” Melisandre ended her prayer and waited as the faithful completed the ritual.  
  
“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the converts echoed.  
  
She waited a moment and then spoke for the dead. “Let these souls depart their mortal flesh, cruelly sundered before their time, and join the Lord of Light in His great hall where the darkness of their sins and the cold cruelty of the world will be burned away, where there is no winter and no night. For the night is dark and full of terrors.”  
  
“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the faithful echoed again.  
  
Most of the converts departed within a few minutes others stayed as long as half an hour, but eventually, Melisandre stood alone watching the dance of shadow and flame. She waited and waited and… _There_. The weave of smoke, shadow, and flame coalesced into images. Horses, men, fighting. A stag surrounded by wolves, lions, krakens, spears that shone, a three headed dragon, and golden skulls. _Show me Lord Tywin_. The fires wavered and revealed the Lord of Casterly Rock at a council and speaking with another, the flames did not reveal who. _Show me victory_. She saw a wounded lion tearing at roses that bore no thorns, behind the lion was the shadow of a stag. _Of course_. Melisandre straightened, letting a slight smile play over her heart shaped face, and turned to walk to King Stannis’ tent.  
  
Melisandre passed by Ser Timon the Scrapesword and Ser Andrew Estermont of the kingsguard as she entered the tent, Ser Richard Horpe was inside guarding the king, and Ser Boros Rambton was having his flesh removed by the Silent Sisters, he had fallen defending the king. She sat at the table within and joined Lord Alesander Staedmon, Lord Steffon Varner, Ser Masuro Kichashiro, Lord Bryce Caron, Lord Casper Wylde, and half a dozen other highborn, in waiting for the king to speak. Stannis sat at the far end of the table, leaning on his sword that Melisandre had heard was already being called _Fury_ , his as yet unnamed hand-dragon lay on the table beside his cup.  
  
Stannis took a deep drink from the cup and leaned further on his sword. “Casualties?” He asked roughly.  
  
Lord Alesander Staedmon, his leg swathed in bandages, answered, reading off from a piece of parchment. “Ahem, uhm, the uh numbers are still coming in Your Grace, but it seems at least three thousand dead and over twice that badly injured. Maester Kepam believes many of them will not live out the night. Uhm Your Grace’s goodbrother Ser Erren is dead, as is Lord Ralph Buckler, his heir Ser Barron Buckler, and Lord Davos Seaworth. Lord Owen Fossoway and Ser Jon Fossoway are not among the dead or injured, it is believed that they were captured.”  
  
Before Lord Alesander could continue King Stannis spoke again. “Enough my lord, leave the parchment, I’ll read it later. Ser Masuro, how fare the dragons?”  
  
The foreign knight stood awkwardly and bowed before speaking. “Three of the dragons were destroyed, taking their crews with them, and two more dragons were damaged in the explosion again with the loss of much of their crews. A half of the remaining black powder was lost as well.”  
  
“The dragonmen?”  
  
“Losses were less than expected, Lord Seaworth had moved them to the rear once they ran out of black powder. The pikemen took the brunt of the enemy charge.”  
  
“How much black powder is left?”  
  
Masuro’s long silence before his spoke was an answer in itself. “Not enough to fight a battle.”  
  
Stannis ground his teeth for a moment. “Move the dragons farther down the hill, so they directly overlook the ford, load them with nails and scrap metal. Have the men dig out trenches and pits.”  
  
“Your Grace,” Lord Steffon Varner spoke for the first time. “Perhaps it would be wise to retreat and rally at Cider Hall?”  
  
Stannis’ hands tightened around the grip of _Fury_. “If we retreat then Lord Tywin will follow us and as he does so, his numbers will grow as the more of the Reach gathers to him. Besides Cider Hall is too small to accommodate this army, unless you mean to abandon thousands outside the walls and then settle into an unwinnable siege. We fight here, win or lose we will make our stand here,” Stannis waved a hand in dismissal. “Go on, do your duty.”  
  
Melisandre waited for the rest of the council to depart before rising and stepping around the table and walking towards her king. Silently, she inspected the contents of his cup, as she had suspected it was wine instead of Stannis’ customary lemon water. _He won’t admit it_ , _not to me_ , _not to anyone_ , _maybe not even himself_ , _but he lost a friend today_. She stood beside him and spoke. “When dawn comes Lord Tywin will find victory. I have seen it in the fires.”  
  
Stannis said nothing, the sound of grinding teeth filled the tent.  
  
“He will ride across the river and overwhelm you with his numbers. He will lose many men but he will win the battle,” Melisandre put a hand on Stannis’ shoulder. “But there is a path to victory my king. Give yourself to R’hllor.”  
  
Stannis pushed her hand away and stood, stepping away from her, still holding Fury in a clenched fist. “Since coming to Dragonstone you’ve said that.”  
  
“And since coming to Dragonstone it has been true. I foresaw your victory over your brother and over Tyrion Lannister.”  
  
“The dragons gave me both those victories not you,” Stannis said angrily.  
  
“Did dragons save you from the Spider’s assassin?”  
  
Stannis ground his teeth and said nothing.  
  
Melisandre smiled again, stepping forward to push her advantage. “It was R’hllor who gave you the dragons. You were born again in the smoke and salt of their black powder and you woke the metal of the dragons out of stone. But they cannot help you now. Only the power of the Lord of Light can bring you victory over the lion,” she stepped towards Stannis, towards Azor Ahai reborn. “Give yourself to the Lord of Light,” she put her hands on his shoulders. “Give yourself to the god of fire,” Melisandre twisted her robes so that they fell revealing her nakedness, her hands rose to Stannis’ face and gently began to guide it to hers. “And shadow.” Stannis did not resist.


	16. Chapter 15 (Daven, Melisandre, Arya, Sansa)

Daven

 

Daven waited at the edge of the camp, fiddling with his hand-dragon, checking it for scratches, cracks, or powder buildup, as the Beikango traders had taught him. As he worked he watched the sun slowly rise above the horizon. Streaks of crimson and gold mingled with the black shadows of night that still lurked nearby. _Baratheon and Lannister colours together_ . _Were I a more foolish man I’d try to make some kind of omen of today’s battle out of it_. Daven shook his head as memories of yesterday’s battle returned to his mind like so many creeping insects, he had slept poorly last night. He looked, outwards over the field, some fools had been calling yesterday's battle a victory, but most called it for what it was, unfinished.

 

“Good morning Daven,” someone said behind him.

 

“Ser Kevan,” Daven rose quickly as the older, portly, and balding Lannister approached him. He slipped the hand-dragon back into its sheath. “I’d not thought to see you so early in the morning.”

 

Kevan smiled grimly. “Lord Tywin has summoned the army’s commanders for one last meeting before today’s battle.”

 

“Lord Tywin sent you to summon me?”

 

“Ah,” Kevan gave an awkward smile and shrugged his shoulders. “I volunteered. Lord Tywin is speaking privately with Lord Mace,” he shook his head. “A rather awkward meeting I must say.”

 

“Is Lord Tywin truly so wroth with Lord Mace? The man can hardly be faulted for trying to hold the river. The bank is higher on our side,” Daven spread his hands. “It’s as good a place to defend as any in the Reach.”

 

“Yes,” Kevan agreed. “But the plan was for Lord Mace to avoid battle, and in so doing lure Stannis away from the river, and onto the open ground so common in these lands.”

 

“Where we could make use of our numbers and outflank Stannis,” Daven extended Ser Kevan's line of thinking.

 

“And surround Stannis and destroy him and his army,” Kevan finished and sighed. “It would have been a decisive victory.”

 

“And make an end to this war,” Daven said.

 

“Not an end. Not so long as the North and the Ironmen remain recalcitrant,” Kevan said gently. “But it would have been a good start. A few months, maybe a year, and we would all return home to our wives and children to weather out the winter.”

 

“Ah yes… my wife.”

 

“Is something wrong?” Kevan asked concernedly.

 

“Ah no,” Daven shook his head. “She’s just a bit, uh spirited is all.”

 

Ser Kevan nodded his head. “Northern ladies often are. Get her with child,” he said simply. “A child will calm her spirit.”

 

Daven wasn’t so sure but, unwilling to push the issue, said nothing more on the subject. “Where’s your squire,” he asked to change the conversation.

 

“Hmm? Oh, Gunthor is with his father.”

 

“I see, and how is Lord Mathis?” Daven asked genuine concern tinging his voice, he’d had the misfortune of seeing Lord Mathis’ wound for himself. The injuries done by sword, axe, mace, lance, or arrow were as nothing compared to the devastation a dragon could do to a man’s flesh.

 

Ser Kevan frowned. “He was awake, well mostly awake, for a half hour last night. The maesters gave him some milk of the poppy for the pain and to help him sleep. It’s unlikely he’ll be coherent at all today. But our Lord of Goldengrove should live, though admittedly it’s hard to be certain at this point, and even should he survive it’s doubtful he’ll ever walk again or even ride,” he finished sadly.

 

“A shame for such things to happen to such a doughty warrior as Lord Mathis.”

 

“Tis a fair sight better than dying,” Ser Kevan said bluntly.

 

“I suppose,” Daven said glumly. “What’s that?” He asked, spotting something moving in the fields that separated the camp from the Cockleswent.

 

Ser Kevan narrowed his eyes. “A rider,” he said and jogged forward several paces as the rider grew closer. “A scout, one of ours I think.”

 

It took less than a minute for the scout to ride to them. He was breathing heavily as he pulled his horse to a halt next to Daven and Ser Kevan. “My lords,” he gasped. “The enemy is stirring, they're mounting their steeds, and readying to leave their camp.”

 

“To attack or flee?” Daven demanded of the tired man.

 

“To flee my lords,” the scout gasped. “They’re loading their wagons.”

 

“Come with me,” Ser Kevan commanded waving a hand to bring the scout along behind him. “And you Daven.”

 

Daven swiftly followed Ser Kevan, who led them straight through the camp, heading directly to Lord Tywin’s command pavilion, and passing by the rest of the slowly waking camp. _If we can catch Stannis on the march_ , Daven smiled unable to even finish his thought he was so excited at Stannis' mistake, at least until he gave the situation a bit more thought. A _n army on the march is vulnerable_ , _so why would Stannis risk leaving the riverbank_ ? _Why make such a mistake_? His smile turned into a frown

 

In less than ten minutes Daven and Kevan joined the other high lords and commanders of the Westerlands and the Reach, several dozen men in total. All of whom milled outside of Lord Tywin’s pavilion, most of them in robes and other comfortable clothing with only daggers at their sides, only a few were in armour. King Joffrey was there, guarded by Sandor Clegane in his white cloak and white armour. The king was struggling not to yawn in the bare light of early morning. Waiting impatiently near the edge of the crowd was Ser Garlan, the silk sleeves of his doublet bulging around the layered bandages wrapped around his left arm.

 

Daven followed Ser Kevan as the older man took the scout by the shoulder and began to push through the crowd of highborn. Daven began to follow but had a small start as, from the corner of his eye, he saw something dark and swift move, but when he turned there was nothing. _Probably just a dog_ , _nothing to worry about_.

 

Daven made to continue walking but a mangled scream and a panicked shriek from inside the tent turned his steps into a swift run that sent him rushing past Ser Kevan and the scout, and into the tent. Daven’s rush came to a dead stop as he saw Lord Tywin, the great Lord Tywin, the lion of Casterly Rock, futilely trying to stop the blood that was spurting from his slit throat. Standing next to Lord Tywin was Lord Mace with a drawn dagger.

 

Rage rose in Daven’s heart and in only a moment he was stepping forward and drawing his dagger and shouting. “Traitor!”. But just as quickly the rage depleted as details made their way past his anger. Lord Mace’s stance was wrong, he was too far away from Lord Tywin, and most importantly his dagger was free of blood. _But if not Lord Mace than who_? Before Daven could think any more on the matter he was pushed aside by a screaming King Joffrey.

 

“Murderer!” Shouted the king. “Assassin! Traitor!” Joffrey drew his sword.

 

“No! Wait, Your Grace,” Daven tried to grab King Joffrey’s attention but the king shrugged his hand away, and with an almost perfect thrust stabbed the Lord of Highgarden in his round stomach. As Daven froze as Lord Mace fell to the ground and in a moment seemed to stretch out forever met Lord Tywin’s eyes, and as that bare, single second, seemed to stretch into hours, he saw a flash of fear in those green gold-flecked eyes, before Lord Tywin went still and silent.

 

Ser Garlan pushed past Daven, murder in his eyes and his dagger drawn, as he charged at the king. Daven acted without a thought, he grabbed the Tyrell knight by his wounded left arm and pulled him away from the king. Garlan roared in pain and anger, as he turned, moving faster than Daven had seen anyone, save for cousin Jaime, move before. He made a thrust with his dagger at Daven’s stomach.

 

Daven quickly stepped backwards only narrowly avoiding the blade of the bloodthirsty Tyrell knight, but then Garlan did something with his feet sending Daven falling to the ground as he tripped over Garlan’s hooked foot. As Daven fell he took a tighter hold of Garlan’s arm and dragged the younger man down with him. They grappled amidst the fallen chairs and twisted carpets of Lord Tywin’s pavilion. Daven was slightly larger, but Garlan was stronger than he seemed and was possessed with incredible speed and flexibility. _And rage_. Twice Daven thought he had trapped the Tyrell knight, but even as he tried to stab Garlan with his own dagger, the younger man would squirm free and try to twist the lock back on Daven. A fate that he avoided twice until Garlan grabbed hold of Daven’s beard and forced his head to twist sideways. With this leverage Garland was able to push Daven into the leg of Lord Tywin’s heavy oak table, trapping his arm.

 

Garlan yelled and attacked Daven with his dagger. Daven felt the pommel of Garlan’s dagger pummel his right side, he felt ribs crack under the weight of the knight’s blows, and he felt ribs break. With a final flurry of blows, Garlan left Daven on the ground, wounded and gasping for breath through the pain that had quickly consumed his chest.

 

Daven lay still for what felt like hours but was likely only seconds. Only now did Daven begin to take notice of the rest of the fighting in the pavilion. Reachlord and Westerman fighting each other with dagger, fist, and knife. A sudden roar got his attention and Daven slowly turned his head. His eyesight blurred from light from lack of air as he struggled to breathe through the pain. Garlan, armed with a stolen sword, was locked in battle with the Hound. Behind the Hound, Joffrey was on the ground pressing his hand against a wound on his leg.

 

Daven pushed himself up to his knees and fumbled at his belt for his hand-dragon. With difficulty, he managed to pull the weapon free, with greater difficulty he pulled back the lock and took aim at Garlan Tyrell. Only to have his line of fire blocked by the snow white cloak and armour of Ser Mandon Moore, who joined his Kingsguard brother in arms in the defence of King Joffrey. Faced down by two swords of the kingsguard Ser Garlan did not waste time in making a swift retreat, taking some of his father’s bannermen with him.

 

Daven lowered his arm and gritted his teeth through the pain that continued to shoot through his ribs. Only then did he begin to take note of the rest of Lord Tywin’s pavilion. The living were already leaving the Reachlords guarded by soldiers and the Westermen nursing their new wounds. The dead were fairly few in number, aside from Lord Tywin and Lord Mace, Daven only saw a couple Reachlords he didn’t recognize lying still on the ground and… and Ser Kevan. He was lying not far from his brother with a great read and black stain marred the front of his silk tunic. Daven closed his eyes, forced himself to his feet, and left the pavilion. Once outside it became clearer that the fighting had not spread far beyond the pavilion and had been swiftly ended by the arrival of Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Bronn Wolfsbane, and half a hundred soldiers. The Reachlords, many of them bearing wounds, were on their knees and were surrounded by Ser Bronn’s men.

 

Coming right behind Daven was Joffrey, limping and holding onto Ser Mandon to support his injured leg. He glared at the Reachlords. “Kill all of them! Kill the traitors! I command it!”

 

The soldiers hesitated for a moment looking to their leader. Ser Bronn shrugged. “As his Grace commands,” and ran Lord Arthur Ambrose through with his blade. His soldiers followed suit raising their blades and sending blood flying.

 

Daven closed his eyes and said nothing.

Melisandre

 

Her body heaved with great breaths of pleasure, pain, and pure exhaustion. Melisandre strangled a moan as she pulled herself upright off of the damp ground and from there into her saddle. Her power, spirit, and body drained by the birthing, aching in the predawn gloom, and she knew her trials today had only just begun. The day would pass slowly and painfully as she forced herself to remain seen astride her mare and next to Stannis. She wished instead that she could retreat to the restful embrace of spending the coming day within a wagon, but it would not do for her to stay hidden from sight. _The servants of R’hllor must be strong and be seen to be strong_. Nonetheless, she struggled not to slump in her saddle as her pale mare’s hooves splashed in the slow and cool waters of the Cockleswent, as they made their way back to the camp. The darkness of night still hung heavy in the air, though far away in the east pricks of pink were beginning to appear on the horizon.

 

Even so, as she grew closer to the camp she began to see the shadow of movement as men, horses, oxen, and wagons moved in the dark.  Stannis had given several new commands to his commanders after their... meeting last night and now they were being carried out. By the time the sun rises this army will be gone. Melisandre twisted the reins around her hands as another cramp twisted her insides and sent fiery shocks of pain through her body. Her mare left the river and passed the low bank with it’s barely started defences, passed the perimeter of the camp and the hurrying only half awake soldiers, and up the hill until Melisandre reached the summit, where the nightfire, now reduced to mere embers, still smoldered.

 

As Melisandre waited for the sunrise in the east, she watched the army make ready to leave and ate of necessity for the first time in a decade. Bread, bacon, and cheese simple fare but her drained body struggled to keep it down. She chewed mechanically, forcing the food down her throat, even as her stomach threatened to send it back up.

 

Near an hour passed before the army left the bank of the Cockleswent. Using the chaos and confusion that Melisandre knew was consuming the enemy as a smokescreen to flee the larger enemy army. She had thought for a time of using the death of Lord Tywin to launch an attack but Stannis head feared that an attack would only serve to unite the enemy, and even if it did not the enemy was so numerous as to make an open battle too risky for Stannis’ demoralised army.

 

They marched westwards away from the ford and towards Cider Hall, where they would rest before retreating up the Mander, back to Bitterbridge and all the way to King’s Landing if need be. Early in the afternoon, the army was joined by several riders from, men loyal to Stannis who had been taken prisoner by the enemy and who had escaped during the chaos of Lord Tywin’s death, chief among them was the beardless Lord Owen Fossoway, who brought news of the enemy.

 

“Lord Tywin is dead, slain at the dawn, rumour has it by Lord Mace,” the young Lord of Cider Hall spoke to Stannis and his council. “Lord Mace himself was killed by the bastard, by Joffrey, which sparked combat between many of the present Reachlords and the Westermen. I have it on good authority that Ser Garlan fled with some of the Reachlords and several thousand men.”

 

“Only some of the Reachlords?” Questioned Lord Alesander Staedmon.

 

“Things were so confused,” Lord Owen continued. “That by the time Ser Garlan fled many hadn’t even heard of Lord Tywin’s and Lord Mace’s deaths. At first, they thought it was an attack by you, Your Grace. And after the fighting was done… well given the choice between the son of a murderer and a king who would you choose my lords?”

 

"Even king who had executed their fellow lords?" Lord Casper Wylde asked.

 

Lord Steffon Varner shrugged his shoulders. "There's not one House in all the Reach that hasn't dreamed of taking Highgarden for themselves if House Tyrell has betrayed the king then it only mean opportunity for every other house."

 

“A false king, but the point is understood” Stannis ground his teeth. “What other casualties occurred amongst their lords, and how many of the soldiers?”

 

“I can’t say Your Grace I escaped not long after Ser Garlan fled, but from what I saw I wouldn’t think the army’s numbers were terribly damaged, though there was still some fighting as I left.”

 

Stannis frowned. “If you escaped, my lord,” King Stannis spoke. “Where is your cousin, Ser Jon Fossoway?”

 

Lord Owen glowered a moment before speaking. “Lord Mace offered Ser Jon his freedom, on account of them being goodbrothers and Ser Jon accepted. Lord Mace welcomed him back with open arms.”

 

“A foolish mistake,” Lord Casper Wylde declared.

 

“Very,” agreed Lord Owen. “But then disloyalty runs in the blood of the green apple Fossoways. Your Grace if I might offer my assurances that my own family would never repeat the treason of our cousins and-”

 

“-Enough my lord,” Stannis interrupted the Lord of Cider Hall. “See to your men and then ride ahead. We’ll arrive at Cider Hall by tomorrow evening at the latest.”

 

Lord Owen paused a moment. “Yes, Your Grace,” he stood from the table, bowed, and then took his leave.

 

King Stannis turned his attention to his other lords, but Melisandre did not pay attention her mind had turned to other matters, to other opportunities.

 

After the meeting, Melisandre made her way to the part of the camp reserved for House Fossoway. She walked purposefully through apple marked tents of House Fossoway. Red apples only, she noted. Lord Owen was within his own tent preparing for his departure to his family’s ancestral castle. A generous person could call Lord Owen the proud scion of an ancient house who was much concerned with his family dignity, but Melisandre was not so generous and saw Lord Owen for what he was, a gormless, arrogant, and blindly ambitious man-child, a tool at best. _But every tool has a purpose_ , _even a dull one_.

 

Melisandre entered the tent without asking. “My lord.”

 

Lord Owen jumped. “Lady Melisandre. What an unexpected pleasure.”

 

Melisandre let her fairest smile play over her features. “How old is House Fossoway?”

 

“P-pardon my lady?” Lord Owen stuttered, clearly surprised by the question.

 

“House Fossoway, how old is your family?”

 

“Uhm,” Lord Owen stalled for a time struggling to clear his mind. “Lefend, er, legend traces our descent from Garth Greenhand by way of his son Foss the Archer, which would have been over ten thousand years ago.”

 

Melisandre said nothing but slipped further into Lord Owen’s tent. “And?”

 

“Uhm, the maesters can trace our line back nearly three thousand years, to the Andal Conquests. Beyond that things grow a bit vague.”

 

“And for how long have the sons of House Fossoway been loyal servants to their rightful king?”

 

“Always,” Lord Owen said with more than a hint of alarm in his voice. “If this is about my traitor cousin-”

 

“-Does Cider Hall of a godswood?” Melisandre interrupted.

 

“Uhm… no,” Lord Owen said lamely.

 

“I thought all the great castles of Westeros had a godswood and a weirwood heart tree.”

 

“Cider Hall used to have a heart tree, but… my ancestors burned it when we converted to the Faith of the Seven.”

 

“And why did House Fossoway convert?”

 

“Our king demanded it of us...”

 

“And a loyal vassal does as their king demands does he not?” Before Lord Owen could respond Melisandre spoke again. “Come to my nightfire tonight,” she laid a hand on his arm. “I insist.” Then she turned and left.

 

That night as the faithful gathered to hear her prayers Melisandre lit the nightfire Stannis Baratheon stood in attendance, and Lord Owen Fossoway stood opposite from him. As Melisandre turned and spoke her prayers to the gathered faithful she met Lord Owen’s eyes, and the Lord of Cider Hall bowed his head in understanding. Lord Owen left for Cider Hall later that night and the rest of the army followed in the morning.

 

It was nearing evening by the time the walls of Cider Hall came into sight. The gates opened before the king and his escort, including Melisandre, followed him. Lord Owen waited within, his household spread around him, as the king entered Cider Hall and rode up to the middle of the courtyard where he dismounted and waited.

 

“Your Grace,” Lord Owen knelt. “Cider Hall is yours.”

 

Stannis bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.

 

Lord Owen stood and pulled a letter from his belt. “Some good news, Your Grace. A raven has come from King’s Landing. Lord Edmure has defeated the Blackwood rebels in a battle along the Red Fork and has left Lord Jonos Bracken to put Raventree Hall under siege. Lord Edmure writes that he is now moving south to battle the Vances.”

 

Stannis nodded almost imperceptibly. “What news of Joffrey?”

 

“My men report he is still idling on the Cockleswent but is gathering supplies to begin a march.”

 

“Likely to try and finish what his grandfather started,” said Lord Renfred Rykker.

 

“And we have not the numbers the challenge him,” Lord Alesander Staedmon replied.

 

“We will continue northwards,” Stannis said, cutting off his lord's doomsaying. “Send a raven to King’s Landing for reinforcements and supplies, they are to meet us at Bitterbridge.”

 

“Yes Your Grace,” Lord Owen bowed, and waved a hand to his maester, sending the grey-robed man off to his tower. “There is one more thing, Your Grace if you’d please come with me.”

 

Stannis said nothing but followed the Lord of Cider Hall through the outer courtyard, past a narrow gate under the inner wall and into the inner courtyard where the sept was. Where the sept had been, Melisandre smiled for the stained glass windows and crystal regalia had been shattered, and the statues of the Seven had been dragged outside and the placed amidst an unlit pyre.

 

Lord Owen snapped his fingers and a soldier quickly crossed the courtyard, carrying a burning brand which he passed to Lord Owen. The Lord of Cider Hall offered the brand to Stannis. “Your Grace.”

 

Wordlessly Stannis turned his gaze from Lord Owen to stare at Melisandre, Lord Owen then took it as a sign from the king and instead offered the brand to Melisandre. Silently Melisandre took the brand without a word and advanced upon the false gods. And as the light faded from the sky she smiled as the flames consumed them. A smile she forced herself to keep, for though the flames burned hot all she saw within them was ice.

Arya

 

In a strange way life in King’s Landing was much like life in Harrenhal. No one really seemed to care about her or even notice her so long as Arya stayed quiet and respectful, but instead of scrubbing floors and fetching water Arya was made to accompany Princess Shireen almost constantly, for though there were other children at court Arya was the only girl, and she’d overheard Queen Selyse saying that it would be improper for any boys to be in Shireen’s company for so long. Arya didn’t think she was meant to hear that, but as Queen Selyse seldom let Shireen leave her sight, Arya heard many things she was likely not meant to hear, both from the queen and from others.

 

As the weeks passed her by in King’s Landing Arya heard hundreds of things, most of them just gossip, which maid was fucking which knight, which knight the cooks hated. Or how often Queen Selyse trimmed her moustache. But some were important, snippets of greater conversations bits and pieces between the queen, the lords, and the Small Council. She heard that there was still fighting in the Riverlands between Lord Edmure and rebels led by House Blackwood and House Vance, and with bandits led by Beric Dondarrion, who had been stripped of his lands and titles by Lord Alester. That Ser Justin Massey was leaving King’s Landing to join Stannis in the Reach. She heard that there were Dornish raiders in the south led by the Red Viper and that sellsails had been spotted gathering in the Stepstones and the Disputed Lands. That Lady Arryn was furious that Lord Royce had come to King’s Landing. She heard that the Golden Company had made camp in the Disputed Lands for nearly three months but hadn’t taken a contract with Lys, Myr, or Tyrosh. Arya didn’t know what was worse not learning more about what was going on beyond the walls of the Red Keep or knowing that there was nothing she could do to about any of it.

 

With a quiet sigh, Arya pulled her mind away from matters beyond the walls and back to tonight’s ordeal. Her guards were escorting her through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast. Arya was wearing the silly blue and yellow dress Princess Shireen had given to her as a gift, it had little white lace snowflakes embroidered along the hems and around her waist. After every dinner, Arya had with the princess she was given another dress. Soon I’ll have more than I had in Winterfell. Her guards led her up a twisting flight of stairs though they needn’t have bothered Arya had made the journey from her chambers to the princess’ dining room so many times she’d all but memorized every inch of the floors and the walls, every statue, and every tapestry.

 

The dining chamber itself was guarded by two of the kingsguard, who Arya recognised as Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy. Arya’s own guards moved to the side to let her pass, and as Arya advanced Ser Emmon opened the door for her, letting Arya enter the small dining room behind it. The room was occupied by a broad oval table, made from beechwood, around the table were arrayed a half dozen chairs all but three were already occupied. Shireen was sitting at the head of the table, opposite from the door, the chairs on the right side of the table were occupied by two boys both a couple of years older than Arya and Shireen, one was dark haired and severe looking, the other had black hair and blue eyes, both of them had big ears. She recognised the first as Dickon Tarly, the lord of Horn Hill, and the princess’ cousin, he’d been at several of the dinners before. She didn’t know the other boy, but she thought he looked a little like Gendry. Farther across the room was another smaller table, where Queen Selyse and Lord Alester were sitting. Ser Rolland Storm lurked in a corner of the room, like a white shadow behind Princess Shireen. Patchface wasn’t present, _thank the gods_ , Arya was not afraid of the fool, but he unnerved her with his queer rhymes and strange songs.

 

Arya took the seat at the foot of the table, opposite Shireen, and next to the boy who looked like Gendry, leaving the two empty seats of Stannis and Steffon Seaworth who arrived only a few moments after Arya.

 

Shireen smiled as the Seaworth brothers sat down. “Thank you for coming,” she said. “Thank you all.”

 

Arya smiled as if she was happy to be here. _As if we had a choice,_ Arya glowered internally, remembering what Joffrey would do if he didn’t get his way. Dickon Tarly didn’t look very happy either, but then he never did.

 

“Welcome all, for those of you who don’t already know,” Shireen continued. “This is my cousin, Edric Storm,” she waved a welcoming hand at the new boy.

 

“Hello,” he said charmingly.

 

Arya put a smile on and greeted him in turn. As was proper. Arya smiled and gave thanks as the first of the three courses, a thick chowder, was brought out. As was proper. Arya laughed politely when Edric told a joke that made even dour Dickon Tarly chuckle. As was proper. She took dainty sips of the chowder, and polite bites of the venison pie that followed. All as was proper. She smiled sweetly when appropriate, said her courtesies. _Yes my Princess_ , _no my Princess_ , _of course_ , _my Princess_ . All her thoughts were bent on remembering the lessons Septa Mordane had tried to drill into her. So much so that she began to lose track of what was actually being said letting herself fall into a trance, one not so unlike what Syrio had described sometimes happening in battle. _This is a fight_ , she decided, _just a different kind_. That one thought of Syrio swiftly began to bring others to the fore of her mind. Before long Arya felt long repressed sadness and anger begin to well up, but she quashed them back down, though not before she felt some tears begin to well up.

 

“Arya?” Shireen’s concerned tone shocked Arya out of her memories. “Are you alright,” the princess asked.

 

Arya bit back a reflexive uhm. _It’s not polite_ , Septa Mordane’s voice echoed up from the depths of memory. “I’m fine, thank you, my Princess.”

 

Shireen frowned but before she could speak a slammed fist sent cutlery rattling and silenced all conversation in the room, even Ser Rolland was startled, his hand going halfway to his sword before he realised that there was no real danger. Lord Alester, who was glaring at the queen, spared a glance at the children’s table before unclenching his fist and standing up. He took Queen Selyse’s hand as he stalked away and all but dragged his niece, the queen, out of the room.

 

A few moments after Lord Alester and Queen Selyse left the room Arya leapt on the chance their disturbance had given her. “Princess, might I be excused. Just for a moment.”

 

Shireen looked startled for a moment, but then smiled her queer shy smile that touched only half her face. “Of course, Lady Arya.”

 

Arya stood from the table, curtsied, and mumbled her thanks before leaving. She ignored the twin stares of the kingsguard knights and travelled down the hall, turned the corner, and stopped. Arya closed her eyes, _swift as a deer and quiet as a shadow_. She slipped her fancy shoes off her feet and slipped down the hall, following the echoing footsteps of Lord Alester and Queen Selyse.

 

She shadowed them for a minute before the two Florents stepped inside a narrow little hallway that ended in a small window. Lord Alester and Queen Selyse were standing close together, glaring at each other. Lord Alester’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had turned whiter than the snowflakes on Arya’s dress. _Quiet as a shadow_ , Arya crept closer to the queen and her uncle, staying hidden in a corner and within the shadow of an old statue.

 

Queen Selyse spoke first her voice sharp and shrill. “I don’t want Shireen to hold one of these dinners again! It’s disgraceful to have her,” Selyse’s faced twisted in anger. “Cavorting with the children of traitors, criminals, and now a bastard who shames me and my husband with his every breath!”

 

Lord Alester waved his hand dismissively. “She’s been kept isolated for too long, Shireen needs to learn how to speak to people, how to play the game of words, and that’s not something she’s going to learn from you or His Grace.”

 

Selyse’s face twisted even further at that insult. “I will not tolerate this insult upon my family’s honour.”

 

“Whether or not you tolerate it is not my concern. I am the Hand of the King and unless King Stannis himself demands that these dinners cease then I will have them continue. Have I made myself clear?”

 

“Perfectly,” Selyse said tersely.

 

“Good, then let’s return to dinner.” Lord Alester turned to leave but stopped when Selyse spoke again.

 

“I don’t want her to sit the Iron Throne again. It’s not her place. A princess should be learning the womanly arts not sitting atop that monstrosity. Beside what if she cut herself? It’s to dangerous for her to-”

 

“-Dangerous?” Lord Alester interrupted the queen, his voice quiet, and cold and sharp as a knife’s edge. “Do you want to know what’s really dangerous. Being the first reigning queen to ever sit the Iron Throne. Which Shireen will be.” Lord Alester’s voice went even colder. “That is unless you can do what you’ve failed to do thus far and give King Stannis a son.”

  


Queen Selyse went stiff and slapped her uncle. “You will not speak of my private affairs in such a manner.”

 

“You’re a queen Selyse!” Lord Alester shouted back. “You have no private affairs everything you do is of concern to the realm!”

 

“You will not speak to me like this I am your queen!” Selyse made to slap her uncle again but Lord Alester blocked her blow and grabbed her shoulders with both hands.

 

“You are a queen because that is what I made you! Do you have any idea how many favours I had to use up, how many strings I had to pull, or how much gold I had to spend to make you Stannis’ wife! And what have you done to show for all my work? Only a single sickly little girl.”

 

Selyse stepped back, shocked into silence by her uncle’s anger.

 

Lord Alester exhaled and stood up straight, seemingly forcing himself back to calmness. “There is one thing upon which your husband and myself agree and that is that if Shireen is to rule one day she must be seen to be ruling. Now let’s get back to dinner, lest the children start to worry.” The two adults turned and began to make their way back to the dining chamber. Arya froze inside her shadow praying for Lord Alester and Queen Selyse to look past her. They didn’t.

 

“What are you doing!” Queen Selyse shrieked.

 

Arya winced and slipped out of the shadows. Somehow she didn’t think Queen Selyse or Lord Alester would be as understanding as her father.

Sansa

 

Casterly Rock loomed large and golden in the sunlight the great bulk of the Lannister castle was more massive than anything Sansa had ever seen. King’s Landing, Winterfell, Goldengrove, and every other castle, city, or town she’d ever seen could have been swallowed up by the mountain to never be seen again. They rode their horses up the stone steps that led to the Lion’s Mouth, the great gate of Casterly Rock. Within the Rock Sansa’s horse was quickly taken away a page while a second page led her to a pair of Lannister women. They were both a few years older than Sansa, and had the typical golden blonde hair and green eyes of House Lannister, though neither had the stunning beauty of Queen Cersei, and they looked similar enough to be sisters.

 

The two sisters stepped forward and curtsied to Sansa, who courteously returned the gesture, as the elder of the two spoke. “Hello Sansa, I’m Cerenna and this is Myrielle,” she gestured at the younger woman and smiled. “Daven is our brother,” she stepped forward and embraced Sansa in a hug. “We’re so happy to welcome you to our family.”

 

Sansa froze in surprise and not knowing what else to do returned the hug.

 

Cerenna smiled. “The servants will see to your belongings, Myrielle and I have other plans for you.”

 

Their plan as it turned out was to take Sansa on a tour of Lannisport. The sisters took three fine horses from the stables, and half a dozen redcloaks as their guard, and then led Sansa into Lannisport. The differences between Lannisport and King’s Landing were obvious. Lannisport was just as large but was far less crowded than the capital. The sewers and pipes were fully functional sending the refuse and filth of the city into the ocean instead of leaving it in the streets. As a result, the city was cleaner and smelled far better. In place of the Flea Bottom and crowded stinking wharfs of the Fishmarket were prosperous shops and wide clean streets where nearly everything one could imagine was sold.

 

They must have passed through half a hundred shops and sold everything, the best jewelry the West could offer, fine wines, delicate luxuries from the Free Cities, fine furs from the North, and beautiful dresses. They never stayed very long there was always another shop for Cerenna and Myrielle to show Sansa. Throughout it all the sisters spoke endlessly on the uniqueness of this shop, the specialities of that shop, and a hundred other details that Sansa soon forgot in the flurry. As they traversed the waterfront shouting and the sound of drums drew Sansa’s attention to the harbour. A number of galleys were moving in the calm water, their red and gold sails were furled, and their great battering rams lurked beneath the water, as the oars pushed the ships off their moors and into the Sunset Sea.

 

Cerenna answered Sansa’s unspoken question. “There’s ironmen raiders around Kayce and Feastfires. The fleet’s going to go teach them a lesson they won’t soon forget.”

 

“They have a king again,” Myrielle said. “Did you know that?”

 

“I’d heard that Lord Balon had crowned himself again,” Sansa replied quietly.

 

“Oh no he’s dead,” Myrielle said. “His brother is king now?”

 

That caught Sansa’s attention and she turned to look at the Lannister girl. “Victarion?” She asked recalling some of what Theon had said of his uncles.

 

“No not him and not the priest either, the other one Uron or Eron or something like that.”

 

“Euron,” Sansa supplied. In those happy years in Winterfell Theon could spend hours boasting about his family, how strong and brave and fierce they were, but he only rarely mentioned Euron, and there was always a hint of dread when he did mention his banished uncle.

 

“That’s it,” Myrielle said gleefully. “King Euron,” she sniffed. “Though I dare say he won’t be a king for long, Lord Tywin will set him straight just like he will all the other traitors and rebels that plague King Joffrey’s realm.”

 

Even only a few weeks ago Sansa would have spoken her agreement, made some courteous declaration of loyalty to King Joffrey, and House Lannister, now she simply stayed silent. For a few seconds, Myrielle and Cerenna waited for Sansa to say something as courtesy dictated but as the silence stretched on and became awkward the two sisters turned and continued to show Sansa the sights, sounds, and shops of Lannisport, all of which Sansa paid only a fleeting attention to. Four hours past noon they returned to Casterly Rock.

 

Her goodsisters led Sansa upwards, through endless corridors, and deeper into Casterly Rock, to a set of rooms on the southwest side of Casterly Rock, overlooking Lannisport and the Sunset Sea. That night Sansa dined with her goodsisters Cerenna and Myrielle, her goodmother Lady Myranda had chosen not to dine with them.

 

For a time the two women had tried to speak with Sansa, as they had in Lannisport, but she only responded with meaningless courtesy, uttering nonsense platitudes to their every question or concern, if she responded at all. In time the two sisters gave up and let Sansa eat her meal in peace.

 

After her dinner, Sansa retired to her own chamber and spent her evening alone. She stole a blanket from her bed and moved out onto a large chair that rested on her chamber’s balcony, overlooking the Sunset Sea. Wrapped in the blanket and sitting in the chair she could see the great stretch of the western ocean, and she watched the spectacular sunsets. The sea turning into a great mirror of gold, crimson, and blue. Purple clouds streaking across the blue sky. She could even watch the goings on in the harbour of Lannisport. It was windy so high in Casterly Rock but the sea seemed calm, disturbed only by the ships the plowed through the waves. In the distance, she could faintly see the Lannister fleet making it’s way farther west. When the sun slipped beneath the horizon Sansa returned to her bed and cried herself to sleep. Sansa came to spend a good many evenings like that.

 

A week after her arrival at Casterly Rock, Sansa and her goodfamily were awoken by a squad of redcloaks, led by a skinny sergeant with a huge beard, who entered their chambers unannounced.

 

“What is this?” Cerenna demanded of the sergeant.

 

“A precaution mi’lady. Her Grace the queen fears that there are traitors inside the Rock.”

 

“Traitors! What traitors?”

 

The sergeant shook his head. “I cannot say mi’lady. I only know that we were sent to ensure no harm came to any of you.”

 

Sansa quietly watched the confrontation continue from the door to her bedchamber, thinking of a similar day in a different castle that had also been purged of traitors by Queen Cersei. Ultimately Sansa’s goodsisters quieted down and the redcloaks remained for the rest of the day, opening the door only for the servants who brought them food and drink, or who came to clean and change the linens. It was nearing nightfall when the guards finally left.

 

The next morning they were summoned to court in the great hall. The hall itself was everything one would expect from the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, great lion statues plated in gold, with ruby eyes, and ivory fangs stood guard at the entrance and by the high golden throne, where Queen Cersei sat. The hall was carved from the stone on the high on the southern side of Casterly Rock, the southern wall had great windows of stained glass that bore images of the magnificence of Lannisters past.

 

As a Lannister by marriage, Sansa joined her goodfamily on a dais that rose above the rest of the great hall. She was separated from Queen Cersei and the golden throne only by the Small Council. _Which has received some new members_ , Sansa noted. Lord Sebaston Farman, a man of an age with the queen with three silver ships on his surcoat, the bald and soft, and weak-chinned Ser Harys Swyft, and the coughing Maester Pycelle. The only person missing was Lord Varys. It suddenly struck Sansa that she had not seen hide nor hair of the simpering Master of Whispers since arriving at Casterly Rock. _Where is Lord Varys_?

 

Before Sansa could give it any more thought Queen Cersei began to speak. “The court is gathered today to address the traitors in our midst. Let it be known that my father the great Lord Tywin, the Lion of the Rock, was, on the eve of victory over Lord Stannis, betrayed and murdered by Lord Mace Tyrell,” the queen trembled with rage as she spoke. “And in their treason Lord Mace and his treacherous son Ser Garlan killed many of our brave western sons and brothers.”

 

Lady Myranda went tense with fear, and Sansa heard her goodmother praying so softly she could scarcely be heard. “Not Daven. Not Daven. Not Daven.”

 

Queen Cersei continued. “Amongst the dead lie Ser Addam Marbrand, Lord Philip Foote, Ser Flement Brax, and my own uncle Ser Kevan Lannister. Were it not for the courage of our great King Joffrey many more would have died including my cousin Ser Daven, who even now recovers from wounds dealt to him by the traitors.”

 

Lady Myranda’s prayers stopped as she gave a great gasp of relief and hugged her daughters close to her.

 

The queen continued, ignoring the outburst from her cousin’s mother. “In light of this treachery, and by my authority as Queen Regent and Lady of Casterly Rock, I had all those whose allegiance is suspect placed under arrest, until such time as they have proved their loyalty.”

 

Queen Cersei stood and walked from the hall, followed by the Small Council. Sansa and her goodfamily rose next walking a third of the length of the great hall. Sansa took care to see the faces of those they passed. There were no Reachmen present, even little lady Elinor Rowan was missing. When Sansa and her goodfamily left the hall, she began to turn left, to return to their chambers but was stopped by Myrielle’s hand on her arm. Sansa repressed a flinch and turned to look at her goodsister.

 

“We’re going to the sept, to give thanks for Daven’s life and pray for his recovery.”

 

Sansa froze. “Uh… House Stark keeps the Old Gods, I would prefer to pray before the heart tree.”

 

Lady Myranda sniffed back her tears. “Of course Sansa. Cerenna, Myrielle and I will meet you back in our chambers.”

 

“Thank you, my lady,” Sansa made herself smile and give her goodmother a small curtsy before turning to make her way to her gods.

 

The godswood of Casterly Rock was nothing of the sort. It was aptly named the Stone Garden and that was what there was for there was little and nothing that could grow at the summit of Casterly Rock save for the heart tree. There were stone paths, stone rivers, stone hedges, stone trees, there were even little stone flowers, and a great many statues as well. The heart tree was a proper weirwood, though it was small and twisted, barely a quarter of the size of the tree in Winterfell, all the paths of the Stone Garden led to it. Sansa walked reverently towards the tree and knelt before it. The skirts of her dress spreading around her as her wide sleeves danced in the quick wind that raced around the top of Casterly Rock.

 

Sansa sat in silence for several long minutes staring at the roaring face of the heart tree. _Daven was near killed_ . _I should pray for him_ , _it’s what a dutiful wife would do in the songs_ … Sansa’s heart hardened. _But life is not a song_.

 

“You killed my father,” she accused the gods. “You killed Lady. You killed Arya. You killed Bran. You killed Rickon,” tears began to form in her eyes. “Why couldn’t you kill my husband? Why! What has my family done to you that you should hate us so?”

 

She didn't expect an answer and so was not surprised when no answer came. After a few minutes, Sansa stood to leave and the wind blew hard from the north, sending the branches and leaves of the heart tree rattling. Sansa paused in midstep as, for just a moment, she thought she’d heard Bran’s voice in the wind.


	17. Chapter 16 (Daenerys, Skahaz, Mathis, Arianne)

Daenerys  
  
At noon Daenerys sent her emissaries to Yunkai, as she had done each day for the last two weeks. Each time the Yunkai’i had ignored them and she hardly expected the fourth time to be different, but she had to try. For she dreaded to risk the lives of her people trying to take the walls of Yunkai. Crumbling though they may be they were still high and well guarded by all manner of soldiery, slingers, crossbowmen, levied slaves, and sellswords, that infested the parapets like so many maggots. Her three envoys, Aggo her bloodrider, Red Rat an Unsullied commander, and a leader of the freedmen named Quzdar, slowly approached the city gates under their banners of truce.  
  
Inevitably Dany’s eyes turned from her envoys and to the city walls, which, as the days had passed, had slowly grown less crowded as the slavers grew more complacent that Dany would not try to storm the city. _Perhaps I can use that_ , _a night attack to steal up on the walls and take them before the enemy can respond_. _But can that even be done with what armies I have_? She turned to her advisors. “Have you ever stormed a city or a castle?” Daenerys asked of them. After a few moments only Arstan Whitebeard and Ser Jorah answered.  
  
“Several,” said the old squire.  
  
“A few times,” Ser Jorah said.  
  
“Tell me about them,” she commanded.  
  
Both men began to speak at the same time only to stop at the mutual interruption. Arstan waved a hand for Ser Jorah to speak first.  
  
The former lord of Bear Island cleared his throat. “Most of them were holdfasts in the Riverlands during the War of the Usurper. But they were only little things, with only a small wall of unmortared stone and a single tower. The greatest fortress I stormed was the Greyjoy castle of Pyke. at the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion. The siege engines had taken down a watchtower and part of the walls so an assault was launched. I was one of the first men through the breach.”  
  
“Was it terrible?”  
  
“Yes, Khaleesi. Hundreds died to seize the breach and hundreds more died to take the rest of the castle.”  
  
Dany pursed her lips. _And how many thousands would die to take all of a city_? Dany turned her attention to Arstan Whitebeard.  
  
The old squire was stroking his namesake beard when he began to speak. “The first time was the castle of Torturer’s Deep during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I was fighting for your grandfather King Jaehaerys under the command of Lord Ormund Baratheon. The castle was held by pirates and cutthroats loyal to the Old Mother, one of the Ninepenny Kings, but the walls were low and not well maintained. We carried over the walls with ladders and took the fortress in an hour,” Arstan smiled as he remembered. “There were several others castles after that but the none were even half as large as Torturer’s Deep.”  
  
Dany nodded once and asked another question of the old man from her homeland. “Did you fight during the War of the Usurper?”  
  
“Yes Your Grace,” Arstan said. “I fought at the Trident under your brother Prince Rhaegar and partook in the taking of some holdfasts and castles during the war. During the Greyjoy Rebellion, I fought on Old Wyk and took the Ironmen castles there.”  
  
Dany was about to ask more, but movement at the gates of Yunkai set her heart racing in anticipation. But it was only her envoys returning without a word from the Yunkai’i. “Let us return to my pavilion and await them,” she said. Dany pulled her silver around and returned to the depths of the massive camp that cut Yunkai off from it’s hinterlands. Nevertheless, the city remained supplied by sea. Every day dozens of ships came and left from the harbour, no doubt their hulls were stuffed with supplies of every kind. _I fear the Yunkai’i are eating better within the city than my people are outside it_. The mansions and country estates of the Wise Masters of Yunkai had been looted and ravaged first by the freedmen and later by the Unsullied who had torn the buildings apart for building materials. The thousands of freedmen were gathered beneath makeshift tents, as they waited for their turn to work upon the scrap lumber and torn apart buildings. They worked under the direction of one of the surviving sellswords who had proved to have a knowledge of siege warfare and was putting that to good use in Dany’s service. Aiding him were several freedmen who had worked as carpenters and builders for the Good Masters. Together they were turning piles of wood and scrap into ladders, mantlets, rams, and a pair of tall siege towers. _Siege engines fit to take the walls of Yunkai if I dare to attack them_.  
  
Dany passed by all her people as she rode through the camp. “Mhysa,” her people cried. “Mhysa.” Dany had only discovered a week past that the word meant mother in Old Ghiscari. Old men, crones, and children alike called out to Dany asking for her attention, for her help. But she had none to give. Her people had stripped the land bare of all food for leagues around the city and now they were beginning to starve. Worse yet the first traces of disease were being felt.  
  
Within her grand pavilion Daenerys waited for her envoys to return. Within half an hour the three men entered and knelt. “Rise,” she said. “Did they at least deign to speak with you today.”  
  
“No Khaleesi,” Aggo said as he rose to his full height. “The slavers hide behind their walls and ignore us.”  
  
Dany pursed her lips.  
  
“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said. “You must launch an attack.”  
  
“Do not tell me what I must do, ser. You are here to advise not command.”  
  
“My apologies Khaleesi.”  
  
Dany sighed. “Nonetheless I find myself agreeing with you. Grey Worm, how long will it take to prepare an attack?”  
  
The Unsullied commander answered immediately. “If the preparations begin now then the Unsullied will be ready at dawn.”  
  
“Attacking at dawn would be wise Your Grace,” Arstan Whitebeard interjected. “The enemy’s eyes will be blinded by the light of the sun.”  
  
Ser Jorah gave a sideways glance at the old squire. “He’s not wrong Khaleesi.”  
  
“The main assault will be commanded by Ser Jorah and Grey Worm, consisting of Unsullied and the sellswords. Aggo, Rakharo, and Jhogo you will have command of the archers. Strong Belwas and Arstan will remain by my side as my guards and to command the reserve should we have use of it. The preparations will begin now and be ready for a dawn attack.”  
  
Grey Worm tapped his spear on the ground and bowed his head. “Yes, Your Grace,” the eunuch departed her pavilion.  
  
Ser Jorah and Dany’s bloodriders bowed. “Yes Khaleesi,” the four men said as one and left her pavilion.  
  
Dany dismissed Belwas, Arstan, and her handmaidens as well. Alone she laid down for a night of fitful sleep that ended when she left her bed an hour before dawn, having barely slept at all. She had the walls of her pavilion taken up, so she could see her army go to battle, and see the bloodshed that would come from her commands. As Grey Worm had promised the attack was ready at dawn, and as Arstan Whitebeard had advised the attack began at sunrise. Even as darkness still shrouded the fields that surrounded the city the Unsullied began to advance. They went slowly at first, sheltered beneath mantlets, and the roofs of the battering rams. Behind the Unsullied came the freedmen, armed with shovels, axes, and picks ready to make hurried trenches and pits for shelter, and to prepare the ground so the two great siege towers could be brought forward. For now, though the towers were being kept in place, lest their moving silhouettes against the rising sun give away the attack.  
  
In the gloomy darkness that covered the world just before dawn, Dany quickly lost sight of her soldiers as they advanced, as silently as possible, against Yunkai. She could feel her heart beating in her chest as the seconds passed her by. Every moment she expected, and dreaded, to hear the horns rising from the city walls, alerting the garrison to the impending attack. When they finally came it was almost a relief. High pitched horns and yelling seemed so loud in the prior silence, but it wasn’t long before they were drowned out by the shouts and warcries of the freedmen. The Unsullied, however, stayed silent.  
  
The steadily rising sun revealed more and more of the battlefield to Dany. Waves of makeshift mantlets were advancing towards the walls. Every hundred or so yards they clumped together, shielding the hastily dug trenches and pits to provide shelter to the advancing soldiers. Other mantlets were edging forward, behind them came columns of Unsullied, their shield locked overhead like a roof of iron and wood.  
  
From the walls came an endless torrent of stones and bolts, that embedded themselves in shields and mantlets, or else skidded off and bounced onto the ground. In comparison, the missiles Dany’s forces returned were but a stream. Her ranged forces, commanded by her bloodriders, consisted of a few dozen archers armed with hunting bows, a few hundred crossbowmen armed with weapons taken from the defeated Yunkai’i and Astapori forces, and a few hundred Lhazareen slaves who had armed themselves with slings of their own making. From shelter behind the mantlets, they bombarded the walls with stones, bolts, and arrows, as they tried to soften the defenders for the main assault. Others set to work, taking their tools to the rocky ground, to level the ground for the siege towers or build more trenches.  
  
Yet more of the freedmen went to work pulling on the long thick ropes attached to the siege towers. Slowly, they began to inch forward. Hundreds of freedmen strained as they pulled at the ropes and pushed from behind. The towers moved forward with painfully little speed. One by one wooden slats were placed before the huge wheels and the axles had to be greased and regreased to let them move at all. It was near noon before the towers went so far as the first of the trenches. Even as the towers pushed forward the Unsullied and freedmen were hard at work, labouring beneath the endless missiles, they dug more trenches to shelter themselves, and prepared the ground for the towers. As the hours past companies of freedmen began to replace their exhausted and demoralized comrades.  
  
By mid-afternoon, the towers had come within two hundred yards of the city walls. The ground there must have been flatter than the ground farther away, for the towers began to move more quickly. At some unseen signal by Ser Jorah or Grey Worm, the Unsullied began to advance, swarming out of the protection of the trenches and the mantlets, carrying ladders and shields above their heads in tight formations to defend against the hail of arrows. Despite this, it took only seconds for Unsullied to begin falling as missiles struck them down. It took the Unsullied less than a minute to travel the distance to the walls. As one the Unsullied surged up the walls, like an ocean wave crashing into a rock. Dany imagined she could almost hear the clack of wood on stone, the stamping of feet, and the shouts of thousands of men. Almost smell the sweat, the blood, the fear.  
  
As the Unsullied mounted the walls movement drew Dany’s eyes to the enemy soldiers atop them. _Bringing up their sellswords most likely_. _Let’s see how well they fare against the Unsullied_. In most places, the Unsullied had only a little difficulty in climbing the ladders. Atop the walls, the Unsullied were using their shields and short swords. They fought against all manner of sellsword and slave soldier. However in some places, mostly near the towers and the gate, the walls became blanketed in clouds of smoke and Dany could hear a distant cracking sound, unlike anything she’d ever heard. In those places, the Unsullied seemed to fare far less well, though it was hard to tell through the smoke.  
  
Suddenly a loud crack swiftly followed by a deafening crash caused Dany’s head to whip around to where the farther of the two siege towers was now leaning precariously on a broken axle. As she watched the freedmen surrounding it, scatter and flee as the tower leaned farther and farther, until it eventually fell over, sending a great cloud of dust and sand into the air. Dany forced herself to watch as hundreds of bolts struck the, now exposed, freedmen. Thankfully the other tower was still advancing and was now less than two hundred yards from the walls, close enough that the top of the tower was now crowded with archers and crossbowmen, who were getting their revenge at the Yunkai’i who had loosed thousands of missiles at them for most of the day.  
  
Dany felt a sense of satisfaction grow as the Yunkai’i slave soldiers quickly wilted under the fury loosed from the siege tower. As the tower grew steadily closer she saw more and more Unsullied crowding inside, so as to be ready to leap forth when the drawbridge fell onto the walls. One hundred and fifty yards. A hundred yards. The pace slowed to a crawl under the weight of the packed bodies within. Fifty yards. The sun was beginning to fall behind the pyramids of Yunkai.  
  
An eruption of smoke and fire came from a tower next to the gates, fifty yards north of the siege tower. At almost the same time the last siege tower shattered into pieces of wood and gore. Cries of despair rose from the battlefield as the freedmen saw their efforts, and hopes, fall into ruin. The Unsullied, however, marched on, deeper into the clouds of smoke, into the bloody ground that made of a moat of red mud beneath the walls. Unbidden the words of Kraznys mo Nakloz came to Daenerys. “They are the lockstep legions of Old Ghis come again,” the slaver had boasted. “Absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.” _They will fight no matter how hopeless the odds of success_ , she despaired, _they will attack until there is not one of them left alive_.  
  
“Retreat,” she said to Qaggo, her Dothraki messenger.  
  
“Khaleesi?”  
  
“I will not waste the lives of my people on a fruitless effort. Send the order to retreat.”  
  
Qaggo nodded once and then ran to his horse.  
  
Only force of will kept Daenerys from collapsing in horror as the full weight of her failure fell upon her. She sat there, watching as her forces pulled back from the walls, dragging as many of the injured as they could with them, and still under attack from the murderous waves of missiles from Yunkai’s walls. She remained there until her commanders came to her.  
  
“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah knelt, his armour dented and dusty. Grey Worm was beside him, clearly exhausted beneath his unflappable Unsullied demeanour. Aggo and Rakharo both bore minor wounds from the ricochets of sling stones.  
  
“Where is Jhogo?” Dany asked. “Where is the blood of my blood?‘  
  
“Dead,” Aggo answered, his voice almost cracking from the emotion, he and Jhogo had been as close as brothers. “He was in the tower,” he shook his head. “We could not find his body.”  
  
“He will ride among the stars nonetheless,” Dany said quietly. “How many dead?” She asked, trying to keep no hint of uncertainty to enter her voice.  
  
“We cannot say,” Ser Jorah replied. “Not for many hours yet. Perhaps even days.”  
  
“Your best guess then.”  
  
“More than one thousand Unsullied,” Grey Worm said stoically.  
  
“And at least as many freedmen, if not more,” Ser Jorah added.  
  
Daenerys turned silently to the open curtains of her pavilion, to look without seeing, the silhouettes of Yunkai’s pyramids and towers in the fading light. “We will send envoys in the morning. To ensure safety as we gather the dead. You can go now, see to the soldiers.”  
  
Daenerys never had the chance to send her envoys to Yunkai. For the next day at an hour after dawn, the gates of Yunkai opened and a party of envoys left the city. They were half a hundred strong and they came mounted, not on horses, but upon great chairs and palanquins carried by slaves.  
  
“Bring them to my pavilion,” Dany said wearily.  
  
The Yunkai’i and Meereenese envoys gathered before Dany’s open pavilion, flanking her were Aggo and Rakharo on one side and Strong Belwas and Arstan Whitebeard on the other. Drogon was out hunting, but Rhaegal and Viserion were curled into a scaly ball within a nest of pillows. Ser Jorah and Grey Worm were not in attendance, having instead been sent to organize the soldiers.  
  
The slaves gently placed their master’s chairs and palanquins upon the ground and with a rustle of silk curtains the masters exited and gathered in a long line before Dany’s pavilion. The leader of the Ghiscari envoys was the ugliest man Daenerys had ever seen. He had a beetled brow, small eyes with heavy bags beneath them, a huge nose dark with blackheads, and oily yellow skin instead of the amber typical of the Ghiscari. Amongst the other envoys was Grazdan mo Eraz, the Yunkai’i who had treated with Dany before, and who glared from beneath a unicorn horn of oiled red-black hair. Among the other envoys were half a hundred Wise Masters of Yunkai, Great Masters of Meereen, a few sellsword captains, and most curiously by a ten year old girl who stayed at the ugly man’s side at all times.  
  
_He taunts me by bringing slaves into my presence_. Dany forced her face to remain neutral as anger swelled in her breast.  
  
Arstan Whitebeard acted as her herald. The old squire tapped his staff on the carpeted ground. “Hail Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains, and the Mother of Dragons.”  
  
Daenerys noted that a few of the sellswords shuffled and spoke to each other in a strange tongue as her titles were said. She could not understand a word of their speech but from their tone, they seemed angry, angry and afraid.  
  
The ugly man shuffled forward, the slave girl at his side, bowed and waited for Dany to offer a greeting, but when no such greeting came he tapped the shoulder of the slave girl and she began to speak in accentless in the Common Tongue of Westeros. “This one has the honour to present Skahaz, scion of the House mo Kandaq, Great Master of Meereen, the emissary of Meereen and Yunkai, and commander of the Meereenese in Yunkai,” her part done the poor girl stepped aside and her master stepped forward.  
  
Skahaz mo Kandaq spoke smoothly in Valyrian. “I have been given the power to negotiate with you in the wake of your defeat.”  
  
“It seems surprising that you would negotiate unless you were ones on the verge of defeat. Are the ships not bringing enough food to maintain the city?”  
  
Skahaz’s small black eyes glittered. He bowed low to whisper something in the ear of his slave girl, who whispered something back. He straightened and spoke again. “Ships come from Meereen, from Tolos and Elyria, and from New Ghis. But such is the mercy and power of Yunkai and Meereen that our great cities would deign to negotiate. Even with someone as weak and defeated as you,” Skahaz paused to let an uncomfortable silence govern before he offered Daenerys a courtesy. “Khaleesi.”  
  
“I am a queen,” Daenerys said. “The proper address is Your Grace, but I will forgive such a mistake for you are not educated in the courtesies of the Seven Kingdoms.”  
  
“A queen requires a kingdom and the Sunset Kingdoms kneel before the stag, not the dragon. In any case, I stand here surrounded by naught but a horde of barbarians who rape and despoil all they touch. A Dothraki title suits you well I think,” Skahaz mo Kandaq smirked.  
  
Daenerys kept her face carefully blank. _This one is more clever than the other slavers_. “If you are here to negotiate then hear my terms. Yunkai will surrender half it’s wealth and food to my people, take the chains from every slave within the city walls, freeing them now and forever,” Dany leaned forward slightly. “And when the time comes Meereen will do the same.”  
  
“You are as arrogant as you are beautiful, Khaleesi. Allow me to offer a word of wisdom from an older man, only make threats that you can deliver on.”  
  
“I am only a young girl unlearned in the words if history but even I have heard of the fate of Old Ghis when it angered the dragonlords of Old Valyria. I would have thought that Yunkai and Meereen would remember the fate of Old Ghis.”  
  
Skahaz smiled again and let his eyes wander over the curled up bodies of Rhaegal and Viserion. “Everyone remembers that the Freehold defeated the Old Empire of Ghis,” his eyes shifted back to Daenerys. “But only the wise remember that it took five wars to make the great walls of Old Ghis crumble and burn. That these wars lasted centuries and that Valyria itself was brought to near ruin in the fighting that cost them…” he looked again and her children. “Dozens of dragons. Obviously, you fear that yours will suffer the same fate. Elsewise you would have sent them into battle,” he waved his hands. “But enough talk of the past, now you will hear my terms. Your army will leave Yunkai and return to Astapor. You will leave behind everything you have stolen from the Wise Masters. Ships will be provided for your journey to the Sunset Lands and your slaves and Unsullied will be allowed to leave with you. Well, as many of them as can fit upon the ships.”  
  
“I have no slaves.”  
  
“Then I suppose you paid these men and women to follow you all the way from Astapor?”  
  
“They came of their own will and can leave of their own will as well.”  
  
“They have no will. They are slaves whether or not you realise that does not change the facts.”  
  
Daenerys forced herself to remain calm, to not to lash out against the slaver’s taunts. “If they have no will then why are you so determined to keep them chained?” She did not give Skahaz the opportunity to answer. “Let us move on to something more constructive. I would have your word not to harm my people as we collect our dead and injured.”  
  
“No,” Skahaz said simply.  
  
“And why would you refuse? Do you not care for their fate? For their suffering? But why would you, to you and your kind they are only property.”  
  
Skahaz was expressionless as he replied in turn. “The Wise Masters have, mercifully, already begun to care for the injured. They are now safely inside Yunkai.”  
  
“Safe for now,” Daenerys said suspiciously.  
  
“Yes,” Skahaz answered smugly. “But if another attack is sent then they will be hung from the walls one by one.”  
  
Rage stirred in Dany and, sensing her anger, Rhaegal and Viserion began to hiss, steam rising from their nostrils. Despite his, otherwise calm, composure Skahaz nervously eyed the two dragons. When Dany said nothing Skahaz stood and bowed. “I pray that your gods will shower you with wisdom so that you see the sense in accepting my offer,” silently he turned and left. The slave girl at his side as he reentered his palanquin.  
  
Dany waited until the slavers were far from earshot before she spoke. “Would he do it, kill them if I attack?”  
  
“A man like that will do anything, Your Grace,” Arstan Whitebeard said quietly.  
  
“Summon Ser Jorah and Grey Worm. I would have their thoughts on the matter.”  
  
Her two exhausted commanders arrived without delay and waited silently as Dany laid out the terms Skahaz mo Kandaq had delivered.  
  
“The slavers will never fulfill the terms,” Ser Jorah said.  
  
“The masters are liars,” Grey Worm agreed.  
  
“I have no intention of accepting their offer, but I cannot risk the lives of my people attacking Yunkai again.”  
  
“We have time Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said. “Time to make a decision.”  
  
“But not enough time. Supplies are coming to Yunkai from every other city around Slaver’s Bay. Meanwhile, my people strip the land for leagues in all directions. Yunkai must fall or… or we must retreat to Astapor.”  
  
“If you do that then the slavers will only grow stronger.”  
  
“They will do that nonetheless,” Dany countered. “And if my army stays it will only grow weaker. But you are right there is still time to make a decision.”  
  
But only hours later that time was taken away.  
  
From high upon her silver Dany frowned as the column of rag cloaked former slaves, and she noted more than a few in ruined tokars of the Good Masters, entered her camp. “Who are they?” She asked of Grey Worm.  
  
“Refugees from Astapor,” the Unsullied commander answered tersely.  
  
Dany shook her head. “Why have they come?”  
  
Ser Jorah shifted in his boots. “They say that the city is in chaos, the council has been overthrown, and a butcher named Cleon rules Astapor. According to some, he’s declared himself king and...” her knight trailed off.  
  
“And has put his enemies in chains, and has declared their children will make a new generation of Unsullied,” Arstan Whitebeard finished for Ser Jorah.  
  
Dany squeezed her reins so hard her hands turned white, she turned to look at the walls of Yunkai. Walls guarded by slings, crossbows, and other more dangerous weapons. Walls surrounded by a moat of blood and bodies. Dany closed her eyes and turned to her advisors. “We will return to Astapor and end the reign of this butcher king.”

 

Skahaz  
  
“She will not accept the terms,” Skahaz said to Grazdan mo Eraz.  
  
“Then she is a fool,” the lean Yunkai’i replied.  
  
“No, she is wise to do so. Our fleets would dump her and her servants at the first part of the Sunset Lands they saw. Even the barbarians of the west would be able to crush that rabble in a day.”  
  
Grazdan waved a hand as if to slap away Skahaz’s thoughts, and with quiet word had his chair carried away from Skahaz.  
  
“That man is a fool,” Skahaz muttered to himself. Beside him the slave girl said nothing. _Missandei that’s her name_ , Skahaz reminded himself. He reached out and parted the silk curtain that shielded him from the sun. He looked out on the bloody swathe of land that surrounded Yunkai. Soldiers and slaves had been set to work going over the dead and the injured. _Some of the injured Unsullied might yet be salvageable_. _As labourers or bed slaves if nothing else_. Other slaves were working underneath the careful gaze of whip armed overseers as they salvaged arrows, bolts, sling stones, javelins, and armour to be given to the Yunkai’i and Meereenese armies garrisoned within Yunkai or else given over to the sellswords as part of their payment. Idly, he noticed that Missandei was fixing her golden eyes on the faces of each of the Unsullied dead or injured that she could see. When she noticed Skahaz looking at her she averted her eyes and stared at her knees.  
  
Skahaz let the curtain fall back down as his slaves carried him through the great gates and into Yunkai. The yellow brick walls surrounded Skahaz and gave welcome shade to from the heat. Upon reaching the other side the palanquins and sedan chairs of the Great Masters and Wise Masters entered the Plaza of the Gate and began to split up each making their own way to one of Yunkai’s many pyramids. Skahaz parted the curtain again, hoping to catch sight of the Beikango captains in their strange layered armour. He was in luck for six of the foreigners had gathered in the Plaza of the Gate.  
  
“Over there,” he said to the slaves carrying him. “Put me down there and have a rest.” With a word the eight slaves who carried him made their way to the shadows and set Skahaz down. “Careful!” Skahaz growled as one corner was dropped onto the cobblestones. From where he now sat Skahaz could hear the babble of the Beikango captains.  
  
The foreign captains were speaking in their own language, of which, Skahaz could, at best, make out one word in fifty of their queer tongue. This alone made Skahaz an outlier amongst the masters, most of whom had barely bothered to speak with the sellsails. This, of course, made them think that no one could understand them. They were wrong. Skahaz tapped Missandei on her shoulder. “Translate,” he commanded.  
  
The young Naathi slave leaned over and began to whisper in his ear. “They are speaking about the defences of Yunkai. Captain Minato believes that their weapons could destroy the walls in only a day. Captain Sota disagrees he says it would only take an hour. They insult the honour of the Wise Masters.”  
  
“What exactly do they say?”  
  
“That they’re surprised the Wise Masters did not march their soldiers into the sea.”  
  
Skahaz snorted in amusement as the slave girl continued to speak.  
  
“They speak of,” Missandei trailed off as she closed her eyes in concentration. Even with her linguistic gifts learning the Beikango tongue in such a short time was not easy. “Ships,” she said. “More ships and dragons from the south, and of,” she let her head hang. “This one is sorry, this one does not know the word they are using now.”  
  
Skahaz waved a hand. “What else?”  
  
“They speak of the length of the journey.”  
  
“How long a journey?”  
  
“This one cannot be certain.”  
  
Skahaz reached out and squeezed her shoulder.  
  
“This one thinks they said many months, but this one cannot say how many months.”  
  
_Given that they’ve never been heard of or from before_ , _many months probably means a year at least if not far more_ _time_. “What else?”  
  
“They speak of Daenerys Targaryen.”  
  
“What are they saying?”  
  
“They say she is,” the girl bit her lip in concentration as she worked to translate the queer foreign tongue. “A demon, or is born of demons, though this one thinks this word may also mean storm. Then they said that something comes, a uhm, a storm is coming.”  
  
Skahaz nodded. “They don’t respect the masters, but they hate and fear Daenerys more,” he snorted. “Good enough. What are they saying now?”  
  
“They’re talking about food now,” Missandei said quietly.  
  
“Hmph, fine then,” Skahaz pulled the curtain back again and spoke to his bearers. “Return me to the Grand Pyramid.”  
  
“This one obeys,” the eight slaves said as one. With a grunt, they lifted Skahaz’s chair onto their shoulders and began the walk down the narrow twisting streets of Yunkai.  
  
As Skahaz came to the foot of the pyramid Skahaz turned and pulled a copper token out of a hidden pocket in his tokar and gave it to Missandei. “You have served me well today, fetch something sweet from the kitchens for yourself.”  
  
The slave girl took the token and bowed. “This one is honoured by the Great Master’s generosity,” she remained bowed as she waited for a sign that she was allowed to leave Skahaz’s presence.  
  
Skahaz silently dismissed her with a wave of his hand and as she walked off he snapped a finger to summon one of his other slaves. “I’m going to have a bath later today, see that it’s ready.”  
  
The slave bowed. “This one obeys, Great Master.”  
  
Skahaz waved another dismissal with one hand, keeping the other hand carefully on his tokar, Skahaz stood to begin the long walk up to his chambers in the Grand Pyramid of Yunkai. Grand Pyramid, Skahaz sneered internally, it is less than half the height of the Great Pyramid of Meereen, but that is only fitting, for Yunkai is less than half the city Meereen is. A pair of slaves followed him, their polished bronze collars shining in the torchlight of the tunnel like interior halls of the pyramid. Once within his chambers on the fourth highest floor, Skahaz ate an early lunch of dates, spiced lamb, and flatbread, while he went to work on the numerous necessities of commanding the Meereenese forces. Provisions, supplies, pay, and other banal but vital tasks. Most of which were being sold by the Yunkai’i, at often exorbitant prices. The Wise Masters seem determined to milk every coin they can from Meereen. As the noonday heat began to mount Skahaz rose, stretching his aching back and picking at his sweat soaked tokar, and made his way to his bathing chamber.  
  
Inside the chamber were four slave women placing the last candles and adding fresh rosewater into the marble pool. Without a second thought, Skahaz spread his arms wide and allowed two of his slaves to take his tokar and fold it up to be washed and cleaned. Two more slaves began to lather his body in cold, soapy water with a pair of large sponges. Once his entire body was covered in soap Skahaz stepped forward and into the warm water of the bath. He groaned in pleasure as the warmth soothed his aching back. Skahaz took a breath and ducked his head beneath the water, leaving a sheen of oil on the surface as the ram horns of his red black hair were submerged. He then sat on a marble bench and leaned back, as he allowed the slaves to go to work with brushes, soap, and nimble fingers. They worked his hair free of it’s rigid and fantastical shapes and steadily cleaned it. Leaving the long strands to float in the water. Once they had finished Skahaz dismissed them with a waved hand and a sharp word. As they left they lit several scented candles.  
  
Alone and cleansed of dust, sand, and the smell of blood, Skahaz slipped into the bath and floated on his back. Skahaz wasn’t sure how long he floated in the water, with nothing to focus on but the warm wetness of the water, the scented candles, and the rhythm of his lungs and heart, time inevitably slipped away from him. Eventually, inevitably, the calmness was disturbed by the pit patter of little feet, and sound of someone breathing. _The girl probably_ , _waiting for permission before speaking_. With a deep breath, Skahaz opened his eyes and gazed upwards at the tile ceiling. Thousands of coloured tiles on the ceiling made a vivid picture of people fleeing for their lives, a city on fire, and an erupting volcano. _The Doom of Valyria_. _Even after four hundred years Valyria still haunts the children of Old Ghis_.  
  
“Speak,” he commanded of Missandei without looking at her.  
  
“This one brings word from the Wise Masters,” she said meekly.  
  
“What’s the message?”  
  
“The Wise Masters say that Daenerys Targaryen has abandoned the siege.”  
  
Skahaz started upright, sending waves travelling through the, now cool, waters of the bath. “What?”  
  
“The Wise Masters say that-”  
  
“-I heard you the first time!” Skahaz rose from the bath and clapped his hands twice to summon four slaves to him. These ones were armed with cotton towels, brushes, hair oil, and a new tokar. Skahaz breathed deeply of the smell of cinnamon and honey, trying to calm himself as the slaves went to work. They worked quickly, drying Skahaz’s limbs and torso with expert movements of the soft towels and then lightly spraying him down with rosewater perfume. They worked his hair with gels and oils setting it into a pair of great twisting ram’s horns. When they finished the hair the slaves then wrapped the length of his silver fringed tokar around his body and presented him with a mirror. Skahaz gave a grunt of satisfaction at his appearance and dismissed his slaves with a wave of his hand, before slipping into a pair of padded cotton and silk slippers.  
  
With the girl at his side, Skahaz left his apartments and quickly made way through the halls of the Grand Pyramid of Yunkai. It took only minutes for Skahaz to arrive at a high balcony, already crowded with Wise Masters and Great Masters, that overlooked the land. With sharp words and equally sharp elbows, Skahaz forced his way through the crowd and to the stone and bronze balustrade. The late afternoon sun had turned the land around Yunkai into a plain of beaten bronze shining in the light. It was crisscrossed by great streaks of darkness as the pyramids cast long shadows over the land. In the middle distance and stretching all the way into the hills was a long twisting black and brown snake. A snake made of slaves, Unsullied, and animals. _Daenerys' army_ , _headed south_ , _back to Astapor_. Skahaz put a hand on the bronze ornamentation and smiled.

 

Mathis  
  
He only heard of the events surrounding the deaths of Lord Tywin and Lord Mace days later as his mind resurfaced from the depths that the milk of the poppy had sent it too. Gunthor spent hours speaking to him, though Mathis could scarcely believe what his son said. Lord Tywin Lannister murdered by Lord Mace, in turn, Lord Mace Tyrell was dead at King Joffrey’s own hand, a dozen of the greatest lords of the Reach executed with a word, and half the remaining Reachlords arrested or under suspicion of treason. Their own deaths stayed only by the efforts of Ser Daven Lannister and Ser Bronn Wolfsbane. Who it seemed were the only men in the camp who had any influence over King Joffrey. The former as His Grace’s last living kin in the army, while the sellsword turned knight had earned King Joffrey’s gratitude in the early minutes of Lord Mace’s failed coup by killing Mathis’ fellow highborn.  
  
Mathis was one of those under suspicion for he had been high in Lord Mace’s councils before and during the war. Although he had not been harmed though and his men were not, officially, harassed, Mathis was nonetheless kept under guard. At all times at least a dozen Lannister redcloaks surrounded the cart in which he lay or the tent where he slept. Mathis’ captains and bannermen were not as put upon, but they had been forbidden to speak with him directly. Only Gunthor had a measure of freedom in the camp and so he became Mathis’ eyes and ears to the goings on in King Joffrey’s army. It was from them that Mathis learned that it had not taken long for King Joffrey to go to work against Lord Mace’s supposed traitors and conspirators. The king had put the task of rooting them out to Ser Bronn. To do this the upjumped sellsword turned knight was given command over the many freeriders and sellswords in the army. All the while the army was attempting to march northwards as quickly as it could, in the hopes of catching Stannis Baratheon before his army crossed the Blueburn.  
  
Despite King Joffrey’s rush progress was slow. Every day there was a fight of some kind between the Westermen and Reachmen of the army. Often these were broken up before they got too serious by Ser Bronn Wolfsbane and his men. But on occasion things became more serious and required that the men be imprisoned. When that happened King Joffrey would stop the march early to dispense justice upon the offenders. King Joffrey required that the entire army come together to give audience to his proclamations.  
  
It didn’t take long to see a pattern in King Joffrey’s idea of justice, the bloodier the better. The best that one could say for him was that King Joffrey didn’t distinguish between Westermen and Reachmen in his sentencing. The fighters were often mutilated by the loss of fingers, ears, tongues, or else made to fight to the death. “So as to settle their differences,” King Joffrey said. Mathis dreaded what would happen when Ser Bronn’s investigations were done. A week into the march northwards Ser Bronn came to Mathis.  
  
“My lord,” said the redcloaks sergeant. “Ser Bronn to see you,” without waiting for his permission the Lannister man turned to let the lean and wolfish knight into Mathis’ large tent. Ser Bronn entered gracefully, his oiled black leather jerkin shining in the candlelight beneath his wolf fur cloak.  
  
“M’lord,” he said as he took a seat.  
  
“Ser Bronn,” Mathis said in turn from the limited comfort of his camp bed.  
  
“I trust I don’t need to explain to you why King Joffrey has sent me.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good. When did Lord Mace decide to kill Lord Tywin?”  
  
Mathis shook his head. “I don’t know.”  
  
Ser Bronn grinned wolfishly. “That’s what everyone says. What I need, what His Grace needs, is proof that you’re loyal,” Bronn rubbed his chin with one hand.  
  
Mathis’ eyes were drawn to the emerald ring that decorated Ser Bronn’s hand, glittering in the candlelight. _That ring belongs to Ser Gordon Kidwell_ , _a wedding gift from his goodfather_. Mathis’ eyes met Ser Bronn’s, the sellsword’s face was blank, but his eyes glittered. _The bastard_ , _the fucking bastard_. “Perhaps there is a way to prove myself, prove my House’s devotion to King Joffrey..”  
  
Ser Bronn smiled lightly. “And what would that be.”  
  
“Lord Gawen Osgrey, one of my lords bannermen could be placed directly under His Grace’s command.”  
  
“I’m sure His Grace would appreciate such a gesture,” Ser Bronn leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “But I have no doubt that he is looking for something a little more… personal.  
  
Mathis glared at the upjumped knight and stayed silent.  
  
Bronn, undeterred by Mathis’ glare, leaned forward and put his weight on Mathis’ leg. “I don’t have all day to waste m’lord.”  
  
Mathis grimaced in pain. “You bastard.”  
  
“Who my mother fucked doesn’t matter right now,” he squeezed his hand slightly.  
  
“Oaklake Keep,” Mathis said through the pain. “Surely that is worthy evidence of my loyalty.”  
  
Ser Bronn smiled. “I’m happy to hear His Grace can be sure of your loyalty m’lord,” the sellsword knight stood. “Of course we wouldn’t want you to go back on your word now, would we? So I’d like a guarantee of our understanding.”  
  
Mathis glared at the rogue. “You have my word of honour. Is that not enough?”  
  
“I’m afraid not. See it’s my experience that a man’s word of honour is good only so long as you can ensure it will stay good.”  
  
Mathis seethed. “I’ll have a deed written, witnessed, and sealed.”  
  
“Very good m’lord,” Ser Bronn stood quickly and gave a low bow. “Have a nice evening m’lord,” he didn’t wait for Mathis to respond before he left.  
  
When the sellsword left the tent Mathis let what little control that remained to him slip. His face contorted in a rage he began to slam his fist into the bed, uncaring for the pain it sent through his leg. “Damn him!” He said for Bronn for extorting him. “Damn him!” He said for Joffrey for allowing this or being so foolish as to not know of it. “Damn him!” He said for Mace for killing Lord Tywin. “Damn them!” He said for Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister for spawning such a shit of a prince. “Damn him!” Mathis finished with a final slam of his fist cursing Robert Baratheon for the War of the Usurper. Mathis growled and ground his teeth as rage continued to burn inside and his leg throbbed in agony. _I’d kill Joffrey myself_ , _with my bare hands but_ … Mathis forced himself to calm, forced his rage to abate slightly. I _can do nothing so long as my daughter is at Casterly Rock_. _Lord Tywin’s shadow stretches from beyond the grave_. “Damn him,” Mathis whispered. Unable to bear the pain, he reached into his saddlebags for the dreamwine and drank until he fell to sleep.  
  
When he awoke late the next morning the redcloaks had been replaced by his own Goldengrove men. Rather than ride out the army instead remained in camp, to witness King Joffrey mete out justice to the traitors.  
  
_Perhaps some of them are truly traitors_ , Mathis thought of the prisoners lined up before King Joffrey’s pavilion, formerly Lord Tywin’s. _But I fear most simply refused to debase themselves before that bastard sellsword_. Most of them were men close to House Tyrell, either by oaths of fealty or by blood. Chief among them was Ser Leo Blackbar whose loyalty to his wife’s family had never strayed. Armed sellswords stood behind them.  
  
Joffrey lounged in a large padded chair, flanked by Ser Daven, Ser Bronn, and his kingsguard. Mathis sat on an old stool flanked by Ser Raymond Redding, a landed knight sworn to House Crane, and Ser Gavin Oldflowers. Gunthor stood behind him carrying Mathis’ crutches.  
  
King Joffrey smiled as everyone settled in their places, he slouched in his makeshift throne. “My lords, it has been a trying time this past week. But our trials are over now and we can begin our pursuit of my traitor uncle in earnest,” the lords of the Reach and the West kept their silence. “As for these traitors. In my kingdom there can be only one punishment for treason,” he leaned forward eagerly. “Let them taste steel. Ser Bronn bring me their heads!” As one the sellswords standing behind the prisoners dragged them to their feet and began to push the condemned towards the block. All of the prisoners chose to meet the Father above with dignified silence, all save for one.  
  
“You are no true king!” Ser Leo Blackbar shouted as the sellswords brought him to his feet. “You are an illborn monster! Maegor the Cruel come again! You are-” A sellsword punched Ser Leo in the gut, silencing the knight, before continuing to drag him away.  
  
King Joffrey chuckled as the sellswords dragged Ser Leo Blackbar away. As the sellswords pulled Ser Leo to his fate the knight met Mathis’ eyes. Mathis looked away, unable to meet the eyes of a stronger man, a more honourable man, a better man. Instead, Mathis turned his eyes to the king. This boy is nothing like his father, Mathis thought, remembering some of King Robert’s many toasts and boasts from the feasts and tourneys he had hosted at King’s Landing and across the Seven Kingdoms. He is nothing compared to his grandfather, Mathis remembered the iron hard resolve and cold ruthlessness of Lord Tywin. And he is less than nothing compared to Prince Rhaegar, he thought, bitterly remembering the long debates at the Siege of Storm’s End where Mathis had tried to convince Lord Mace to send part of the army to join Prince Rhaegar on the march from Dorne to King’s Landing. If even a thousand men had joined the Silver Prince then perhaps House Targaryen would still sit the Iron Throne.  
  
Ser Raymond Redding leaned down to speak to Mathis. “My lord myself and some of my fellows would like to speak with you tonight. Might we have permission to enter your tent, sometime this evening.”  
  
Mathis thought for a moment before answering. “Yes, you have my permission.”  
  
“Thank you, my lord,” Ser Raymond said before leaving in the company of several Reachman knights.  
  
The little lords and landed knights came to Mathis that night, led by Ser Raymond Redding of Blackwatch Tower. As the first of them arrived Mathis slid the signed and sealed deed to Oaklake Keep into a leather case. They came in ones and twos the vassals of vassals of vassals, the landed knights and littlest lords of the Reach. Some of them were the scions of houses Mathis had not even heard of before, they were so small. The knights and lords Houses Uffering, Bridges, Conklyn, Dunn, Pommingham, Hastwyck, Inchfield, Stackhouse, Leygood, Woodwright, Lowther, Lyberr, Middlebury, Graceford, Norcross, Norridge, Oldflowers, Risley, Roxton, Sloane, and Yelshire. _Men who have never had to think for themselves_ , _men who are so used to obedience it is almost ingrained in their very blood_.  
  
In total, more than two dozen men were crowded inside Mathis’ large tent before Ser Raymond began to speak. “My lord, I think I speak for us all when I say that this cannot continue,” the other knights and lordlings muttered their own agreements. Ser Raymond looked askance for a moment. “Lord Mathis of all of us you are the best suited to bring our grievances to the king. He must know of the corruption and cruelties being done in his name by this upjumped whoreson of a sellsword.”  
  
Before the other lordlings began to speak up Mathis interrupted them. “Ser Bronn is doing His Grace’s work, his bidding.”  
  
“But,” said fat, old, and simple Ser Bart Risley. “He is the king. The king is just. Why is the king not being just?”  
  
“Because he is a poor king,” Ser Walder Yelshire muttered savagely provoking a series of gasps from the other lordlings at the baldness of his statement “Well he is. He’s barely a shadow of his father and mother put together.”  
  
“Would that Robert’s Rebellion had failed,” said the ancient Lord Torwood Middlebury. “Would that House Targaryen still reigned.”  
  
Mathis slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “Sers! My lords! If woulds, wishes, and what ifs were wine and ale the whole world would be drunk. But they’re not and House Targaryen is dead, dead and buried. There’s no use in wondering about what if Prince Rhaegar had won at the Trident. What’s done is done and this is the world we must live with.”  
  
“You can’t mean to say nothing to King Joffrey. Even a Baratheon should be able to see reason in this matter,” Ser Raymond said.  
  
“If he’s even really a Baratheon,” Ser Walder muttered again. “What? You know what I speak of, Lord Stannis’ letters. We’ve all heard the rumours that Joffrey is nothing more than an incestuous abomination.”  
  
“Those are dangerous words ser,” Mathis said quietly. “And I know what you’re all thinking now, but it won’t happen. Stannis will never accept anything from the Reach save for total surrender. We cannot hope to join with Stannis, not after we’ve spurned him twice.” _And not so long as my daughter remains at Casterly Rock_.  
  
“After you’ve spurned him twice,” Ser Walder said.  
  
This made Mathis’ anger rise. “And do you think Stannis would welcome us with open arms ser?” Mathis shouted at the knight. “That he would embrace us and call us friend? Need I remind everyone here of the sept at Cider Hall? Of how Lord Fossoway was forced to burn it to the ground to appease Stannis and his Red God? I thought not. To Stannis, we would be traitors thrice over deserving nothing but the Night’s Watch at best or a slow death at the worst. Better to kneel before Joffrey than to be burned at the altar by Stannis,” Mathis waved his hand. “There are no other options.”

 

Arianne  
  
The heiress of Dorne tapped her fingers impatiently on the dun sandstone walls of the Sandship as she watched the foreign traders speak with her father’s castellan, Ser Manfrey Martell. Only Prince Doran’s most trusted guardsmen, vouched for by Areo Hotah himself, were present. The guardsmen flanked each and every door and lined the walls and all other servants had been banished from the ancient castle. Which was the old seat of House Nymeros Martell, from before the arrival of Nymeria, the Rhoynar, and the thousand ships, in those days they were simply House Martell.  
  
The foreigners wore strange robes of blue and grey and were all unarmed save two who wore sets of queer armour and bore curved swords and daggers at their hips. The warriors flanked several long crates and behind them were several of their countrymen who waited silently in their robes. The apparent leader of the traders was speaking with Ser Manfrey near the center of the cobblestone courtyard. Arianne leaned on her elbows as Ser Manfrey and the trader spent several minutes speaking. The trader seemed determined to go over every aspect of the strange looking weapon he was holding. _It looks like someone tried to breed a club and a crossbow like they were a horse and a donkey_.  
  
She said as much to Tyene who laughed. “That is what they should be called then mules. All of the Seven Kingdoms will fear Dorne and it’s mules.”  
  
Arianne laughed and leaned further onto the wall. _My father is planning something here_ , _something he wants few people to see_. Her fingers tightened on the stone. _I’m surprised I haven’t been escorted from the walls_. _It’s probably only because my uncle has returned from the Red Mountains_. Prince Oberyn and a score of riders had arrived late last night, and he now stood on the walls of the Sandship, opposite from where Arianne was. Arianne turned her attention back to the courtyard where Ser Manfrey was watching the trader juggle with the weapon and what looked like a stick. Once the trader had finished he took aim at an armoured wooden dummy set up twenty paces away from where he and Ser Manfrey were standing.  
  
A few seconds passed between the trader aiming the weapon and Arianne almost jumping out of her skin as the weapon let loose a jet of flame, a cloud of smoke, and a thunderous crash that echoed through the courtyard. As the sound settled down and after images of flame faded from everyone’s eyes, Ser Manfrey approached the dummy to inspect it. Ser Manfrey bent down to look at the armour. A few second later he pulled the coat of scales off the dummy and lifted it high so everyone could see him putting a hand clean through the scales.  
  
“Not a mule,” Tyene said. “A dragon.”  
  
“Is it some kind of magic?”  
  
Tyene shrugged her shoulders and gently shook her head in disbelief, sending her blonde curls swinging. “You're talking to the wrong Sand Snake. Sarella might know something about this weapon, but I think that a vain hope at best.”  
  
Arianne smiled. “Dragons.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“These must be the weapons Stannis used at Storm’s End and King’s Landing,” Arianne’s smile broadened as the traders began to open more of the crates, revealing row on row of dragons. “With these weapons, Dorne will never know defeat.”  
  
“A weapon is only as good as the hand that wields it.” Arianne and Tyene turned to see Oberyn sauntering up to them. Prince Oberyn smiled. “Tyene.”  
  
“Father,” Tyene leapt into Oberyn’s waiting arms and father and daughter pulled each other into a hug. “How long will you be back?  
  
“A few days at most,” Oberyn said with a hint of wistfulness. “Prince Doran is sending me on an important mission,” he extricated himself from his daughter’s hug. “And I’m afraid I must go to him now,” Oberyn gave Tyene a kiss on the forehead. “I will see you and your sisters tonight.” Oberyn then turned to face Arianne, his smile growing a little more melancholy. “Your father wants to see you as well.”  
  
Arianne straightened, slowly rising from her slouch against the battlements. She struggled to keep herself from showing her surprise. _He’s bringing me to his councils_ , _why_? _Has my father given up on making Quentyn his heir_? _Is he finally done trying to steal my inheritance_? She snorted. _More likely Walder Frey is looking for a new wife_.  
  
“Come, Arianne,” Oberyn said. “Prince Doran is waiting for us both.”  
  
Arianne followed her uncle giving Tyene a smile as she passed her cousin.  
  
Her uncle led Arianne out of the Sandship and into the warmer, newer, stronger, and Rhoynar style towers and walls that dominated the rest of Sunspear. The winding paths that dominated the interior courtyards led them to the short, wide, and domed Tower of the Sun, where Prince Doran’s apartments lay overlooking the sea.  
  
Prince Doran was there seated in his wheeled chair, a blanket covering his swollen legs, watching the waves and the clouds in the blue sky. Areo Hotah was lurking not far away and moved forward to wheel Doran next to a table as Arianne and her uncle entered the room. Arianne and Oberyn also took places at the table.  
  
“How went the test?” The Prince of Dorne asked of his brother, hardly giving his daughter and heir a look.  
  
“Better than I’d hoped,” Oberyn admitted. “The hand-dragon punched clean through the scale, through the post, and back out the other side.”  
  
“Scale is not plate,” her father cautioned.  
  
“If it doesn't pierce plate it will still strike with the force of a score of warhammers,” Oberyn countered.  
  
“Perhaps,” Doran admitted cautiously.  
  
“It’s well known how effective these weapons are,” Arianne spoke up. “They destroyed the chivalry of the Reach at Storm’s End and smashed the walls of King’s Landing in days.”  
  
“And at the Cockleswent they were thrown back by Lord Tywin,” Prince Doran said gently. “We must not be rash with these weapons. We must wait and-”  
  
This was news to Arianne but before she of her father could speak they were cut off by her uncle.  
  
"-The time for waiting is over brother!" Oberyn slammed his hands on the table and rose to pace around the room. "Amory Lorch is dead, the Mountain is dead, Tywin is dead, the Lannister’s are all but destroyed, and Stannis has suffered grievously to achieve these victories," he sat down and stared intently at Arianne’s father. "The time to strike is now, for Elia and her children."  
  
Prince Doran sat in his wheeled chair and did what he was best at, waiting and doing nothing, as his brother ranted.  
  
The Red Viper was growing louder. "If we wait much longer the chance for vengeance will pass. Stannis will rule from the Red Mountains to the Neck! And everyone who hurt our family will be dead!"  
  
"Is that not enough?" Doran asked quietly. "To live while those who hurt you see everything they’ve built crumble and die, including their own lives?"  
  
"Not if it’s not my spear that sends their life’s blood spilling on the ground."  
  
"Father,” Arianne spoke for the first time. "Let’s not play this game. You’re planning something. You’ve sent scouts and raiders into the Dornish Marches, some of them led by my uncle. You’ve bought queer weapons from foreign traders, more spears gather at Sunspear every day."  
  
"The time has come to tell her brother," Oberyn fixed Doran with his glare again.  
  
"Tell me what," Arianne crossed her arms.  
  
"Of your betrothed," Oberyn said, provoking a glare from Prince Doran. "You should have told her long ago," Oberyn said, his tone speaking of hundreds of previous arguments.  
  
"Told me what?" Arianne asked.  
  
Prince Doran frowned slightly. "About your betrothed. You would have known long ago if it weren’t for your mother."  
  
"Once again you hide behind the vanished skirts of my mother. It’s always her fault isn’t it?"  
  
Prince Doran’s frown deepened. "Do you remember when you were young, a green-haired girl came to the Water Gardens for a time."  
  
"Yes," Arianne said. "She was Tyroshi? A terror of the water pools, though she could never defeat Garin and I."  
  
"That green-haired girl was the Archon's daughter. I was to have sent you to Tyrosh in her place. You would have served the Archon as a cupbearer and met with your betrothed in secret, but your mother threatened to harm herself if I stole another of her children, and I... I could not do that to her."  
  
Arianne snorted. Stranger and stranger. "Who is it? Who have I been betrothed to, all these years?”  
  
“It makes no matter. He is dead.”  
  
That left her more baffled than ever. "The old ones are so frail. Was it a broken hip, a chill, gout?"  
  
"It was a pot of molten gold," her father said quietly.  
  
“Who was he then? You might as well tell me.”  
  
Oberyn spoke before Prince Doran could even open his mouth. “Viserys Targaryen.”  
  
Shock rattled Arianne and left her still as stone. “What?” She managed to force out.  
  
Prince Doran sat silently as Oberyn explained. “Two years after the War of the Usurper I travelled to Braavos to negotiate an alliance with the Targaryens. The alliance was to be sealed with a marriage between you and Prince Viserys. The contract was signed by Ser Willem Darry and myself, and was witnessed by the Sealord of Braavos.”  
  
“What now then? Viserys is dead and I am still unmarried,” she laughed. “Did you plan on wedding me to his sister. That would cause quite a stir.”  
  
“I had thought to wed Daenerys to Quentyn. Though now there are complications.”  
  
“Of course there are.”  
  
Doran ignored her. “A messenger from a Pentoshi magister came several weeks ago. He spoke of the survival of Prince Aegon. He claims my nephew was spirited away from King’s Landing by the Spider and that he has been raised in secret by Jon Connington.”  
  
“You, you can’t possibly believe this?” Arianne sputtered. “It’s madness. This magister is lying, perhaps trying to trick you out of money or-”  
  
“-I am well aware of all that, but this pretender has the support of one of the richest men in Essos, of the Golden Company, and through those a small fleet of sellsails and the means to invade Westeros.”  
  
“If the boy is truly our nephew, then he deserves our unreserved support,” Oberyn said.  
  
“And if he’s not?” Arianne questioned.  
  
“Then we will use him to take our revenge,” her uncle said with a savage chop of his hand.  
  
Arianne shook her head, mentally connecting the dots. “And if he truly is Aegon Targaryen. Then what better way to seal our alliance than with a marriage. What need for Daenerys Targaryen have we when another Targaryen is already so close?”  
  
“Yes,” Doran said. “Should this pretender prove real, then I would have you seal this alliance in the marriage bed.”  
  
“Well then,” Arriane said leaning forward and pouring herself a cup of wine for herself and her father. “To justice,” she raised the cup.  
  
Oberyn raised his own cup. “Vengeance.”  
  
Doran waited a moment before lifting his own cup of wine. “Fire and Blood.”  
  
They drank deeply of a Dornish red the shade of blood.


	18. Chapter 17 (Imry, Catelyn, Tyrion)

Imry  
  
The voyage from Maidenpool to Ramsgate had taken longer than expected. Contrary winds had stalled the fleet in the Narrow Sea for several weeks until at last the fleet had pushed its way through and entered the Shivering Sea. From those frozen waters they travelled north, towards the southern shores of the North. The Narrow Sea had been calm enough despite the bad winds but as the fleet turned around the island known as the Paps the weather turned foul. Storms raced from the northeast, carrying freezing water, and bone-chilling winds with them.  
  
Imry spent most of the journey below decks in his cabin, struggling not to vomit as the roiling seas sent his stomach twisting upon itself. A particularly massive swell seemed to throw _Fury_ into the air and then bring the massive war galley crashing into the freezing water fresh from the Shivering Sea. “Is the weather always this bad?” He asked of Maric Seaworth.  
  
“It can be worse my lord,” the Oarmaster of _Fury_ replied. “I went north with my father and King Stannis once to deal with the Sistermen, they were wrecking ships and pirating outright on traders sailing the Bite, we had to spend a week docked in Old Anchor on account of the storms.”  
  
An errant wave sent the ship shuddering sideways and Imry’s control finally slipped. He rushed to a nearby empty barrel and emptied his stomach into it.  
  
Maric grimaced in sympathy. “But this far from good weather. It’ll get better the farther north we go, my lord, the Widow’s Watch peninsula will shelter us from the Shivering Sea.”  
  
“That can’t happen soon enough,” Imry muttered as he spat watery vomit out of his scorched mouth.  
  
Days later the Royal Fleet passed through the waters west of Widow’s Watch in the night. Had the night sky been clear the full moon would have silhouetted the easternmost castle in the North against a field of stars. As it was Imry saw nothing of the castle, though a few men reported seeing glances of it when the lightning flashed far away in the eastern sky.  
  
Though the peninsula Widow’s Watch controlled did provide some shelter from the storms of the Shivering Sea, it was not enough in Imry’s estimation. Dark waves still sent the ships tumbling about and the harsh wind sent icy spray over the sides. Everything was wet, cold, miserable, and the temperature only dropped as they sailed further north. On the morning of the third day after passing Widow's Watch, Imry woke to see the entire fleet covered with a thin layer of ice like some icy armada of the Others out of a tale about the Long Night.  
  
That day at noon was also when the Royal Fleet came in sight of Ramsgate, the seat of Lord Luton Woolfield. Imry tried not to let himself think that this was some kind of omen. The castle was made of grey stone and sat atop a low hill on the eastern side of Broken Branch river, a low curtain wall followed the edge of the sea and the river, a small town surrounded by a wooden palisade occupied the western side, and the two were connected by a small wooden bridge. Surrounding the town and the castle was an army.  
  
The fleet anchored itself half a mile from the shore and Imry joined Lord Roose Bolton and Lord Harrion Karstark in going ashore in rowboats. They were accompanied by Ser Aenys Frey, a dozen or more Northern lordlings, and Rikuto, Imry’s Beikango dragonmaster. The bay was calm enough so the rowboats made good time reaching the shore. When the boats rammed themselves onto the stony beach Imry clambered ashore immediately and was barely able to stop himself from kissing the ground as he stepped onto solid ground for the first time in weeks.  
  
A welcoming party met them on the beach, in the lead were two men. The first was a stoop-shouldered, bent-backed, scrawny necked, old man, who seemed fit to disappear under the weight of his furs He introduced himself as Arnolf Karstark and immediately came forward to embrace Lord Harrion as soon as the introduction was done. The other man was fleshy, big boned, slope-shouldered man. His skin was pink and blotchy, his nose broad, his hair long and dark and dry. Fat, wormy lips surrounded a small mouth and he wore no coat of arms that Imry could see. He didn’t introduce himself and nor was he introduced by any of the lords present. Lord Roose all but ignored the man as they came ashore. In the end, it was his eyes that gave the fleshy young man away. They were small, close-set, and oddly pale, like two chips of dirty ice, almost identical to Lord Roose’s eyes.  
  
_So this is the Bastard of Bolton_ , Imry thought idly as Lord Harrion and his uncle chatted quietly for a minute. Little and less was known of Roose Bolton’s bastard in the south. _He doesn’t look like much_ , Imry sniffed, _he follows his father around like a loyal dog_. If the bastard noticed Imry’s appraising eye he gave no obvious sign that Imry could see.  
  
Lord Harrion released his uncle and Arnolf Karstark took a step backwards and turned to face the Warden of the North. “Lord Roose,” he bowed. “The gods are good to bring you back to the North, and in the service of His Good Grace, King Stannis.”  
  
“Long may he reign,” Lord Roose responded in his queer and quiet voice. “How many men are here?”  
  
“Near two thousand, my lord,” Arnolf Karstark leaned forward on his cane and bobbed his head at Lord Harrion. “Four hundred of my nephew’s own men, six hundred from the Dreadfort, three hundred from Hornwood, Lady Barbrey sent three hundred barrow knights and their men, and four hundred more from elsewhere.”  
  
“Deserters, bandits, sellswords, and broken men,” Lord Roose said succinctly.  
  
“Loyal men,” Arnolf countered. “Men loyal to King Stannis and the rightful Warden of the North.”  
  
Lord Roose stared silently at the Lord of Karhold’s uncle, causing the old man to slowly wilt. “Lead on my lord, let us be out of the wind.”  
  
“Of course Lord Bolton,” Arnolf Karstark bowed again and turned to lead the shore party to the command tent.  
  
As they passed through the army Imry kept an eye out for the banners and coats of arms present. As Arnolf Karstark had said, most wore the coat of arms of Houses Bolton, Hornwood, Karstark, and Dustin, or else their bannermen. Those that didn’t, wore the remnants or scraps of the arms of Cerwyn and Tallhart, or other lesser northern houses. A few even wore the symbols of Ironmen houses or the merman of Manderly. Others wore only boiled leather, fur, and mail.  
  
The command tent was made of thick wool and was lined with furs, a pair of braziers by the entrance worked tirelessly to hold back the northern chill. Servants pulled back chairs for all the lords and captains to sit. Lord Bolton sat first, flanked by the two Karstarks, with his bastard sitting opposite of Imry. Lord Harwood Stout, a grizzled man with one arm and the commander of the barrow knights, joined them as well. Rikuto, shivering beneath a fur cloak and muttering in his own tongue, sat beside Imry.  
  
When all were seated Lord Roose began to speak in his typical cool quiet tone. “How many men lay within Ramsgate?”  
  
“Two hundred in the castle,” Lord Harwood spoke first, his voice gruff and precise. “A hundred more in the town, but with the bridge, they can reinforce either side within minutes”  
  
“We could have stormed them both for you, father,” Ramsay spoke slyly. “If we hadn’t been kept waiting.”  
  
Lord Roose’s expression remained unchanged, save that his ice like eyes shifted to look at Ramsay. “In polite company, you’ll address me as my lord,” he turned his attention to Arnolf Karstark and Lord Harwood. “I presume you both counselled caution.”  
  
“Yes my lord,” Arnolf Karstark was quick to say.  
  
“Good, it would not do well to lose half an army taking a single castle,” Lord Roose pointedly ignored his bastard as he spoke. His gaze fell on Imry and Rikuto. “How soon can the dragons be in a position to breach the walls?”  
  
Imry straightened. “It would take several hours to take them onto land and several more to put them into position, but they could be fired from the ships, though only the seaward walls would be able to be breached.”  
  
Lord Roose was silent for a moment. “How strong are the castle walls?”  
  
Lord Harwood Stout answered. “Seven feet thick, fifteen feet tall, and a ditch six feet deep in front of them,” he stopped to scratch the stump of his arm. “They’re thinner on the seaward side maybe five feet thick at most. The mortar between the stones is starting to break down, particularly on the seaward side, they’re in poor repair overall.”  
  
Roose Bolton thought for a moment. “How long will it take the dragons to breach the walls?” He asked of Rikuto.  
  
The thin foreigner bowed his head in concentration. “Uhm,” he muttered to himself in his native tongue while counting on his fingers. “Not long, few volleys at most,” he replied after a minute. “If. If, the walls are as poor as you say.”  
  
Lord Harwood frowned at that but before he could speak Lord Roose gave his command to Imry and Rikuto. “Make a breach in the castle’s seawalls and then wait for further orders. Let us pray that Lord Woolfield will see sense rather than continue in pointless defiance. See to your ships and dragons Lord Captain.”  
  
Imry stood immediately. “Yes my lord.” Lord Roose ignored him in favour of continuing to question Arnolf Karstark, Lord Harwood, and his bastard son.  
  
Imry and Rikuto left the command tent and walked quickly, hunching their shoulders against the cold north wind that had picked up while they were inside. _Back to the ship and sea_ , Imry gagged reflexively at the mere memory of the storms and sickness. They made their way back to the beach and over the sea back to _Fury_.  
  
Imry climbed up the side of _Fury_ , the soaked ropes rubbing his hands raw, at the top he accepted a hand from a sailor as he scrambled over the edge. “Ser Durran,” he called for his Flagmaster.  
  
“Yes, mi’lord?” The muscular Stormlander asked.  
  
“Signal _Lord Steffon_ and _Stag of the Sea_ to join _Fury_ , we’re to bombard the castle walls until a breach is made.”  
  
“Just one breach mi’lord?”  
  
“Just one,” Imry walked past him and shouted down at the lower deck. “Seaworth! Bring us just out of arrow range of the walls.”  
  
“Yes mi’lord,” the Maric Seaworth answered from below.  
  
Imry turned on his heel and made his way to the forecastle where Rikuto was already setting the mix of Westerosi and Beikango under his command to work loading the dragons. Flags were run up the ropes and the oars worked to bring the huge war galley around. Minutes later the drums of _Fury_ were echoed by those of _Lord Steffon_ and _Stag of the Sea_. All three ships were equipped with a pair of dragons placed in the forecastle, where most war galleys would have a catapult or scorpion. The three ships maneuvered clumsily in the cramped bay, slowly moving well into dragon range of the castle walls. They stopped just out of range of the archers now clustered on the salt speckled grey stone. There they stopped and waited, bobbing gently in the blue-grey water.  
  
The dragons on _Lord Steffon_ fired first, belching smoke and flame over the cold water, and sending death screaming at Ramsgate. Imry frowned slightly as he saw one of the dragonballs overshoot the wall and strike the keep instead. The other found its mark and was swiftly followed by those from _Stag of the Sea_ and _Fury_. When the smoke cleared Imry saw and already considerable crater in the wall, though there was also a second hole in the keep.  
  
Five volleys later and a ten foot wide breach had been made. Imry sent the order to end the bombardment. It reached _Lord Steffon_ slightly late and the ship sent another volley of its own at the wall. With that done, Imry fought the urge to retire to his cabin as he watched the castle. An hour after the last shot had been fired the white and purple woolsack banners of Ramsgate fell, replaced by the red and pink of House Bolton.

 

Catelyn  
  
Catelyn was seated in the back of a cart driven by an old man named Roose. Despite his namesake, and indeed a passing resemblance to the Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose the driver was a talkative and cheerful man, who had served Lord Cerwyn for years before being given over to Catelyn’s service. Around her cart were a half-dozen guards, Winterfell men whom Catelyn had known for many years.  
  
Catelyn gripped the tethers that fixed her in place fighting to stay upright as the cart bounced over the rough road between Moat Cailin and White Harbour. Around her marched Robb’s army, newly swelled by the arrival of several hundred more soldiers. They were petty lords, landed knights, smallfolk even, and the remnants of those that had battled against the Ironmen in the west and the Bastard of Bolton, whose crimes were only now being fully revealed to Catelyn and her son. Robb, it seemed still valued her advice and sent messengers to keep her aware of the happenings in the North and the army. Though her son had not approached Catelyn for days, not since that night at Moat Cailin, she had seen him at a distance several times. Speaking with his scouts, his men, and his lords, but never with his mother. From Robb’s messengers, she learned that the Bastard of Bolton had made common cause with Arnolf Karstark and together they had pushed Lord Manderly from the Hornwood. Lady Dustin and her Ryswell relatives had also seen fit to throw their lot in with House Bolton and they were now pressuring the Manderlys Tallharts, and Cerwyns. The Ironborn it seemed had seen fit to withdraw from the North, save for a few holdouts along the western coast, in particular, Deepwood Motte remained occupied. Lord Wyman Manderly himself seemed dismayed and had drawn most of his forces back to protect his own lands.  
  
Four days after setting out from Moat Cailin the small army arrived at White Harbour. The long white walls swelled before them as the road led Catelyn and the northern host out of the plains north of the Neck and down to where the White Knife met the Bite, down to White Harbour, where Lord Wyman Manderly awaited his king. Half a mile from the gate a rider came to speak quietly with Roose, afterward Catelyn’s driver urged the horse faster and brought the cart up to the front of the army, where Robb rode alongside Lady Maege Mormont, Ser Helman Tallhart, and Galbart Glover.  
  
They were met at the city gates by a troop of trident armed Manderly guardsmen led by a very thin man with a trim blond beard, armoured in silver mail. At Robb’s approach, the man knelt. “Your Grace, I am Ser Barth Whytepoole, my lord has sent me to escort you to the Merman’s Court.”  
  
Robb smiled. “Well met Ser, I would meet with Lord Wyman as soon as possible.”  
  
Ser Barth grimaced slightly. “If you’d please follow me, Your Grace.”  
  
Robb nodded. “Very well Ser, lead on.”  
  
Ser Barth turned and led them through the city. They made good time through the clean and well-ordered town, it’s wide, straight, and cobbled roads were flanked by houses built from whitewashed stone, with steeply pitched roofs of dark grey slate, and led the royal party directly to the New Castle, the seat of House Manderly, which stood atop a high hill overlooking the rest of White Harbour.  
  
In the outer courtyard, Catelyn was lifted from her cart by a servant and seated in her wheeled chair. Without waiting the servant began to push the chair behind Robb and his lords as Ser Barth led them into the castle.  
  
They entered the Merman’s Court, the great hall of the New Castle of White Harbour. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made cunningly notched together wooden planks that were decorated with all the creatures of the sea. The floor was all painted with crabs, clams, and starfish. All half-hidden amongst twisting black fronds of seaweed and the bones of drowned sailors. On the walls, pale sharks prowled within the painted blue-green depths, whilst eels and octopods slithered among the rocks and sunken ships. Shoals of herring and great codfish swam between the tall, arched windows. Higher up, near where the old fishing nets drooped down from the rafters, the surface of the sea was painted. To the right a war galley rose serenely from the sea, silhouetted against the rising sun. On the left side, a battered old cog sank beneath the fury of a great storm, her sails in rags. A dais held an empty throne and two chairs, on the wall behind it, a kraken and a grey leviathan were locked in battle as a storm raged overhead.  
  
As Catelyn examined the great piece of art she began to make out small points of black amongst the storm clouds. _Crows_ , she realised as she looked more closely, _crows flying in the storm_. _How odd_. She shook her head slightly dismissing the oddity of art in the Merman’s Court and instead focused on the man who sat beside the great cushioned throne that rested upon the dais. He was tall, stout man, with a neat grey beard and he sat on the right hand side of the empty throne, the left was as empty as the throne. Seated on a pair of large, cushioned stools below the dais were two women. The elder was Leona Woolfield, wife of the late Ser Wylis Manderly, the second was their daughter Wynafryd Manderly, now her grandfather’s heir.  
  
The tall man spoke first, standing up as King Robb and his entourage entered the hall. “Hail Robb the Young Wolf, the King In the North, the King of the Trident, and the Lord of Winterfell. You stand in the court of Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, and a Knight of the Order of the Green Hand. Be welcome in White Harbour Your Grace, I am Ser Marlon Manderly, Commander of the Garrison of the New Castle.”  
  
“I had thought to meet Lord Wyman here,” Robb said.  
  
“I’m afraid my lord cousin is indisposed.”  
  
“He cannot make time to meet with his king?” Robb said suspiciously  
  
“Lord Wyman is indisposed,” Ser Marlon repeated.  
  
Robb closed his eyes and breathed for a moment then spoke in a terse tone. “Fine. What news from the east? The last we heard was that Ramsgate had been put to siege.”  
  
“Ramsgate has fallen,” Ser Marlon said, sparing a glance for lady Leona, whose brother was the Lord of Ramsgate. “Roose Bolton came by sea, at our last count he had over ten thousand men at Ramsgate, two hundred ships, and some of these new weapons from across the sea.”  
  
“Have any of these weapons come to White Harbour?”  
  
Ser Marlon paused a moment, giving Lady Leona the chance to speak first. “They would not trade with us. They claimed that they had better offers for their weapons.”  
  
“I see,” Robb was silent for a moment. “I need men, infantry, cavalry, as many as you can give me if I am to defeat these traitors.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Lady Leona said again, her fists clenched and knuckles white at her sides.  
  
Robb stiffened and glared daggers at Lady Leona.  
  
“Please Your Grace,” Lady Wynafryd spoke up. “My lady mother’s brother and her nephews are held prisoner by Lord Bolton. She cares for them deeply and cannot bear to see them harmed.”  
  
“Roose Bolton is no lord,” Robb’s gaze did not soften but he did turn his attention to Ser Marlon. “And what does the Commander of the Garrison say?”  
  
“I say I cannot make a decision without the permission of Lord Manderly and he is-”  
  
“Indisposed,” Robb finished for him. “What can you do?”  
  
Catelyn grimaced and forced herself to say nothing it would only anger Robb more. _Stay calm my son_ , _remember what your father would say_.  
  
“The best part of House Manderly’s forces went south Your Grace,” Lady Leona spoke again. “Sadly none of them have returned.”  
  
“Wynafryd, please escort your mother to her chambers.” Ser Marlon commanded before his lord’s good daughter could say anything more. The two women stood, blessedly without argument, and left the Merman’s Court. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he waited a moment for Robb to say something, but Catelyn’s son remained silent. “She was not wrong to say that the best of House Manderly’s forces went south, what remains are mostly levies and the dregs of White Harbour. Perhaps three or four thousand could join you in the field,” he shook his head. “The rest are sufficient only to defend castle walls they would break against a mounted charge or battle-hardened foot.”  
  
“So Bolton would have twice my numbers in the field and that does not include what House Dustin and House Ryswell could put into the field.”  
  
“A few thousand each Your Grace,” Ser Helman Tallhart interjected with information about his southern neighbours.  
  
Robb thought for a moment. “Three or four thousand men would give me more than enough numbers to find victory in the west, raise those loyal to House Stark, and then move east and defeat Bolton and Karstark.”  
  
“That would leave White Harbour grossly under-defended and against these dragons Stannis has sent,” Ser Marlon raised his concerns again.  
  
“I would speak with Lord Manderly in person, be he indisposed or not,” Robb said hotly.  
  
Ser Marlon looked at his lap for a moment before looking at Robb. “Yes Your Grace, if you’d follow me.” When Ser Helman, Lady Maege, and Galbart Glover made to follow Robb Ser Marlon raised a hand. “Just His Grace.”  
  
“And my lady mother,” Robb said.  
  
Ser Marlon thought for a moment and then nodded. “As His Grace wishes.” The stout knight led Robb and Catelyn deeper and higher into the New Castle, to Lord Wyman Manderly’s solar. The solar was sumptuously furnished, a massive tapestry showed an ancient battle between Manderly and Ironmen ships fighting on the Mander itself, a large stained glass window with a merman design looked over the harbour, and the ceiling was painted with all manner of sea life. Lord Wyman was abed being tended by a golden-haired maester nearly as fat as he was.  
  
The first time Catelyn had met Lord Wyman she had named him the fattest man she had ever seen and in those fifteen years, he had only grown fatter. Like any fat man, he had had an air of joviality and humour around him as if life was some great joke. That air was gone now, instead, the Lord of White Harbour slumped listlessly on his large cushioned bed. Lord Wyman seemed to have aged decades since Catelyn had seen him when she was last in White Harbour. The fat lord’s white hair was disheveled, his beard thick and ungroomed, and his massive blue-green doublet was stained and wrinkled. Half his face was slack and drooping as if all the muscles had been turned to water. Once he tried to speak but all that came out was meaningless blubbering as his tongue flopped around like a dying fish. One eye was hidden by a drooping eyelid while the other was unfocused and milky.  
  
“Indisposed,” Robb said quietly.  
  
“An illness of the brain,” the maester said. “Caused by bad blood and exacerbated by stress and ill health.”  
  
“Will Lord Wyman recover?” Robb asked.  
  
“Were Lord Wyman a younger man and in better health, I would say it would be possible. As it is he has lost almost all physical function, the best I can do is prolong the inevitable.”  
  
Catelyn frowned at the maester’s casual tone. _He doesn’t sound very distressed that his lord is dying_.  
  
Robb glared suspiciously at the maester. “What is your name?”  
  
“I am Maester Theomore.”  
  
“Where are you from?” The tension in the solar could have been cut with a knife, even Lord Wyman seemed aware of it on some level. The Lord of White Harbour tried to raise a hand but lifted it a few inches before his arm collapsed. “Where are you from?” Robb repeated his question.  
  
“Lannisport,” Maester Theomore answered nervously.  
  
Robb looked like he had smelled something foul. “Begone! I will not speak of matters concerning my kingdom in the presence of a southron rat.”  
  
Maester Theomore stiffened and seemed about to speak but a hand on the shoulder from Ser Marlon silenced him. With a toss of his golden curls, Maester Theomore left the solar. Robb’s hand unclenched the hilt of the dagger at his side. He looked over Lord Wyman for a moment. “I’m not going to get three or four thousand infantry am I,” it was a statement, not a question.  
  
Ser Marlon shifted uncomfortably. “That’s not for me to say.”  
  
Robb’s eyes returned to the dying Lord of White Harbour. “No, it’s Lady Wynafryd’s decision.”  
  
“Though,” Catelyn spoke. “Am I incorrect to presume that Lady Wynafryd has spoken with you about this?”  
  
“Your not. Lord Wyman often kept me close in his confidence and Lady Wynafryd means to do the same.”  
  
“So?” Robb asked heatedly. “Will I have the support of White Harbour?”  
  
“Yes,” Ser Marlon said. “But on one condition.”  
  
Catelyn saw Robb’s shoulders tense and his hand reach up to rub his throat.  
  
“What would that be?” Catelyn asked.  
  
“Marriage,” Ser Marlon said simply. “Lady Wynafryd would have House Manderly and House Stark be joined in marriage.”  
  
Robb turned his back and paced to the other side of the room looking out the merman window, his hand clenched around the hilt of his dagger. “Why didn’t she speak of this in the Merman’s Court?” Robb spat at Ser Marlon.  
  
“Wynafryd feared it would be crass to be so forward and with Lady Leona’s present attitude it would not have been the best time.”  
  
“And it’s not crass that I am forced to bargain for the support of my own vassal!”  
  
Ser Marlon fell silent and shifted almost imperceptibly into a better stance from which to defend himself as Robb stalked back to the center of the room.  
  
“Would the bride be Lady Wynafryd or her sister, Lady Wylla?” Catelyn asked hoping she could calm the situation.  
  
“Lady Wylla,” Ser Marlon said quickly.  
  
“When would the marriage happen?” She asked again.  
  
“As soon as is possible, a week, maybe two, from now at most,” Ser Marlon answered.  
  
Robb’s hand was trembling as he rubbed a spot on his neck. Catelyn reached out and gently pulled his arm down to his side. “It’s a good match,” she said. “House Manderly has been loyal for centuries.”  
  
“Loyal,” Robb whispered, his breath quick, his muscles tensed to the edge of action, and hand clenched into a fist, but at his mother’s touch, he gradually relaxed. “Four days and no longer,” Robb said. “I cannot afford to linger any longer than that.”  
  
“Of course Your Grace,” Ser Marlon said quietly. “Quarters have been prepared for your army and chambers for your lords and yourself.”  
  
“Thank you,” Catelyn said when Robb remained silent.  
  
“Lady Wynafryd instructed me to invite Your Grace to dinner toni-”  
  
“No,” Robb said bitterly. “I will dine alone tonight,” he glanced downward at Catelyn’s comforting hand. “Please see my mother to her chambers.” Robb shrugged her hand away and stalked out of the solar.  
  
Servants escorted Catelyn to her borrowed chambers, they provided her with books, needlework, or anything else she asked for. When the hour came they brought food, simple fare, and Catelyn ate slowly in silence. When she finished she had the servants prepare her for sleep, removing her dress and undergarments and exchanging them for a nightclothes and a shift. Thankfully Lady Wynafryd had seen fit to order a servant to sleep in the same room lest Catelyn need help during the night. As night fell Catelyn began to drift to sleep.  
  
She was more than half asleep when the door to her chamber creaked open. The servant sprang to her feet and quickly began speaking to the intruder in hushed tones that Catelyn couldn’t make out followed. There were no candles and the torchlight in the corridor only served to leave the incomer a faceless silhouette. After a moment the servant left and closed the door behind her, leaving Catelyn in darkness.  
  
“Mother,” Robb’s voice carried weakly through the darkness.  
  
“Robb,” Catelyn responded. _He sounds drunk_.  
  
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry about Moat Cailin, I’m sorry I hurt you.”  
  
“It’s alright,” she said consolingly.  
  
“It’s not,” Robb’s voice broke. “I shouldn’t have done it. But it’s like. Like there’s a beast that takes control when I get angry... or scared or... It’s like everything just blurs together and then I wake up and I’ve done something I barely remember.”  
  
“Robb.”  
  
“You’re the only one… the only one who can make me… make me calm. If you hadn't been there today I might have… I would have...” Robb trailed off into silence.  
  
“Robb, please listen to me please-”  
  
“-I can remember it,” he said suddenly.  
  
“Remember what?”  
  
“The sword, the sword in Grey Wind’s neck, in my neck. The pain, the blood, Dacey Mormont with a dagger in her eye, and then nothingness.”  
  
Catelyn felt her blood chill. “You can’t remember,” Catelyn said. “You were unconscious.”  
  
”But I do remember. I... I try to push it away, to forget, but... there’s nowhere to hide inside my mind,” Robb’s voice broke again. “There’s something wrong with me, I thought it would pass, that I could trick everyone until I got better… but I’m not getting better.”  
  
Catelyn said nothing, what was there to say? Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Robb,” she cried. “Robb come to me,” but the door creaked opened again before she even finished speaking. Her son had left her.

 

Tyrion  
  
Tyrion jumped out of fitful sleep as the sound of a horn filled the air. He grumbled pulling his fur cloak tighter around his shoulders. The horn blew a second time, filling the night air with its warning. _Wildlings_ , _they’re here_. _Damn_. He pulled himself upright and clambered atop of a stool to peak over the wooden railing on the fifth landing of the massive switchback stair. Not seeing anything he leaned farther over the rail trying to catch a look at the wildling horde that was descending upon Castle Black. _Horde might not be the best word for them_ , Tyrion thought as he tried to count the shadows that moved between the light of the bonfires and torches. _I don’t think there’s more than a few hundred down there_. _About how many Jon said there’d be_. Tyrion spared a glance at the top of the King’s Tower where Jon Snow was shooting a longbow at the wildlings. Half the brothers still thought Jon to be a deserter, an oathbreaker.  
  
Tyrion knelt back down, grabbed his crossbow, and leaned back over the edge and aimed his weapon down at the courtyard. Bonfires had been spread around the towers to light up the invaders for the archers in the towers, but the darkness beyond the yards of Castle Black kept the wildlings hidden from sight. Tyrion waited and waited. There. A shadow in the darkness the glint of firelight on bronze. Tyrion pulled the trigger, the stubby, wooden props thrummed, and a quarrel was sent into the darkness. To his left Arron and Emrick, twins from Fair Isle, who reflexively referred to Tyrion as. “M’lord of Lannister.” Shot crossbows of their own at the wildling attackers. To his right Owen the Oaf and Old Henly, a whitebeard of seventy, shot arrows from longbows into the courtyard.  
  
Tyrion ducked down again without seeing if his quarrel had found its mark. He passed the crossbow back to an old man from Mole's Town called Skinny Will to reload. In turn, Skinny Will passed an already loaded crossbow back to Tyrion who stood up to aim again. The scene had changed abruptly in those few seconds. The wildlings had moved out of the darkness and into the light, storming towards the bases of the towers, the armoury, the stables, the shieldhall, and the crescent-shaped palisade of bags, barrels, and crates that surrounded the gate and the base of the stairs. Tyrion took aim at a band running to Hardin’s Tower, a moment later the crossbow thrummed in his hands as the stiff wood bows straightened, sending the string racing up the stock, and the quarrel forward into the night. Tyrion saw a man tumble to the ground with a scream not long after but he couldn’t be sure if it was his bolt that had sent a wildling tumbling to the ground, an arrow from one of the towers, or if the bastard had just tripped on a clump of dirt. Tyrion didn’t stay up to see in any case, instead, he darted back down just in time to hear an arrow strike the barrel that sheltered him like the merlon of a proper wall. “Fuck!” Tyrion cursed as the first was swiftly followed by two others that struck the black cloaked scarecrows Maester Aemon had invented to disguise the Night’s Watch’s numbers.  
  
Tyrion passed his spent crossbow back and grabbed another crossbow. A gurgle brought his attention to Owen the Oaf, whose blond beard was turning crimson as an arrow wound in his throat spurted blood. Tyrion grimaced, the man had been so dimwitted he’d forget that Robert Baratheon had been dead for nearly two years, but he’d been a good shot with a longbow and his sword arm would be sorely missed when the fighting moved beyond bows and arrows. Tyrion sent two bolts at wildlings beating down the door of the King’s Tower with axes. Arron and Emrick loosed their bolts at a band battling around the timber keep below the rookery.  
  
Tyrion shot twice more before shouting drew his attention to the armoury, where a knot of black brothers were fighting on the roof. Standing hard against a band of wildlings twice their number. Tyrion joined the other archers and crossbowmen in sending waves of missiles at the wildlings. Together they drove the wildlings back with a rain of arrows, but the invaders set fire to the armoury as they retreated. Tyrion cursed and shot a quarrel at the wildlings fleeing the burning building.  
  
Warhorns drew his attention to the Kingsroad and a formation of wildlings charging into Castle Black in a column, their shields held high over their heads to make a roof of wood, leather, and bronze. Tyrion shot a quarrel at them but it skidded harmlessly over their shields. Fire and smoke were pouring from the stables, as hay and wood went up in flames. When the roof collapsed, flames rose up roaring, so loud they almost drowned out the enemy warhorns and battlecries. The Wall reflected the light and turned red and orange. More wildlings were swarming through the vegetable garden, across the flagstone yard, and around the old dry well. Tyrion sent a final quarrel at the figures rushing into Castle Black before turning his attention to the makeshift barricade below him.  
  
Lancel stood on the barricade, armed with a longsword and a shield, and standing shoulder to shoulder with Sweet Donnel Hill. A yellow-haired Westerman who claimed to be a Lannister bastard and Tyrion had to admit he did have a passing resemblance to Tyrion’s grandfather, Lord Tytos Lannister. Together with Ser Jarmen Buckwell, Black Jack Bulwer, Ketter, and at least two dozen more black brothers and Mole’s Towners they were holding part of the barricade against the howling hordes of the wild north. A horde of jabbing spears, chopping axes, swinging clubs, and horrible screams of bloodlust. As he watched Lancel cut a wilding’s hamstring and sent him tumbling down the stairs. Other black brothers were not so skilled and despite the fearsome shouts Ser Jarmen Buckwell was bellowing. Tyrion shot a quarrel into the neck of a wildling armed with a greataxe before the brute could split Red Alyn of the Rosewood in two. Only to watch as another speared the red-haired man through the gut so hard that he was thrown over the barricade into Young Henly, a greybeard of fifty.  
  
Wildlings rushed the new gap pushing the Night’s Watch back with shields and killing them with axes. It happened so quickly the wildling rush turned into a flood, soon only a bare dozen black brothers and a few Mole's Town men still stood atop the crates and barrels, but the wildlings were swarming over all along the crescent, pushing them back. Hairy Hal was dead with an axe in his head, Bearded Ben fought on but was surrounded by screeching wildlings. He could see Easy spinning and slashing, laughing like a loon, his cloak flapping as he leapt from cask to cask. A bronze axe caught him just below the knee and the laughter turned into a bubbling shriek.  
  
Lancel and Sweet Donnel fell back, moving backwards up the stairs standing side by side, and swords in hand. Behind them Bass jabbed a spear into wildling faces, only to take one in turn and fall bleeding to the ground. Sweet Donnel Hill tripped over him and then the wildlings were upon them both cutting them apart with axes and knives in a savage fury. Lancel was luckier, or perhaps more skilled, he skipped over the kennelmaster’s falling body and retreated up the stairs. Others were not so lucky, the defenders quickly turned into a herd of sheep ready for the slaughter. It was all too familiar to Tyrion, the breaking of the gold cloaks at King’s Landing had looked much the same.  
  
The battle quickly moved up and onto the steps. Donal Noye had put spearmen on the two lowest landings, but the headlong flight of the villagers panicked them and they had joined the flight, racing up toward the third landing with the wildlings killing anyone who fell behind. Tyrion joined the archers and crossbowmen on the higher landings in trying to shoot arrows and quarrels over their fleeing heads.The heat of the armoury and stable fires were making the Wall weep, and the flames danced and shimmered on the ice like dancers in a twisted mirror. The steps shook as men ran for their lives. The tide was briefly checked on the third landing by three black brothers but before long the savage tide overwhelmed them.  
  
“Back,” Tyrion shouted. “Pull back! To the top!” He fought to keep panic from his voice. He didn’t think he succeeded as the archers of the fifth landing turned as one and fled up the stairs. Tyrion struggled to stay upright in the mass of pounding legs and kicking feet. Distantly he heard the sound of a warhorn from far above him. The plan, he remembered, his panic subsided for a moment only to return in double strength a second later. Oh gods the plan, Tyrion broke into a run clambering up the oversized stairs as fast as he could. An errant boot to the hip would have sent him tumbling over the edge, were it not for an armoured hand seizing his black cloak.  
  
“Come on coz,” Lancel huffed as he pulled Tyrion into his arms. “Now’s no time to learn how to fly.”  
  
Lancel carried Tyrion up past the ninth landing where Donal Noye waited with half a dozen brothers armed with crackling torches. Below them, fire arrows flew from the towers, striking the oil-soaked bottom steps and setting them aflame. On the eleventh landing, Tyrion heard the woosh of suddenly spreading flame as the black brothers threw their torches onto the oil-soaked ninth landing.  
  
They kept moving up till they reached the twentieth landing, there they turned to look upon the fire’s grisly work. Where oil had failed the wind had done the rest. The wildlings were trapped between flames above and flames below. The burned to death or jumped to their deaths. Their screams echoing through the night. A thunderous crack filled the air as the heat melted the Wall and caused the lower third of the stair to break off and crash down upon the remaining wildlings.  
  
“The Wall defends itself,” Donal Noye said almost piously as he stepped onto the landing. “Come on, get going, the ice isn’t going to stop breaking there.”  
  
With no other way to go but up Tyrion sighed and continued upwards this time with more exhaustion and less haste. Near a hundred black brothers and Mole’s Towners gathered atop the Wall waiting their turn to ride the winch cage back to the ground. Tyrion joined Maester Aemon and Clydas in tending to the wounded. He wrapped wounds with bandages, applied salves, and other simple tasks. When the time came he was one of the first to ride the winch cage to the ground, so as to tend to the wounds of those below.  
  
In the end his ministrations brought him to Jon Snow whose leg wound had pulled open during the fight and needed to be rebandaged. As he wound a bandage around the younger man’s leg he caught Jon staring at the faces of the dead wildlings. “Do you know any of them?” Tyrion asked quietly.  
  
“Yes,” Jon answered tonelessly.  
  
Tyrion had noted more than a few armed women amongst the dead asked another question. “Is your girl among the dead?”  
  
Jon grunted as the bandage tightened around his leg. “No,” he smiled. “She’s alive.”


	19. Chapter 18 (Daven, Mathis, Melisandre, Sansa)

Daven  
  
Stannis Baratheon waited for them on the wide flat plains that surrounded Bitterbridge. His right flank was anchored by the Mander but his left was open. King Joffrey’s army was mustering four miles south of the rebels, well out of dragonrange. _I hope_. Near a mile away from the enemy army was a large pyre that sent a pillar of smoke high into the sky.  
  
Joffrey rested with his commanders atop a low hillock, barely a dozen feet tall at the summit, but in the wide flat plains of the northern Reach, it seemed like a mountain. Joffrey wore gold and crimson, plate armour, with stags and lions worked in jet and rubies. His helm was shaped like a snarling lion mounted with a stag’s antlers. “We must strike quickly,” King Joffrey declared. “Lest my traitorous uncle’s dragons pound my army.”  
  
A muttering of agreement came from the assembled lords, knights, and other commanders. Save for Lord Mathis they were all armoured and ready for battle. The Lord of Goldengrove’s leg still prevented him from fighting at all or even riding anything more than the calm little brown mare he currently rode. Gunthor Rowan waited beside his father on a gelding, holding the reins of his father's mare. Lord Mathis' wounded leg was bound in a great mass of white plaster to hold is still and safe while his bones mended.  
  
Ser Addam Marbrand pointed a gauntleted fist at their right flank. “Brilliant Your Grace, if it pleases Your Grace, I might take our cavalry to the right so as to outflank the enemy.”  
  
Joffrey turned to look at the heir to Ashemark, for a moment he looked surprised that Ser Addam had even spoken. His pouty lips smirked slightly. “Yes ser, do that.”  
  
It hadn’t taken long for many to discover the key to getting King Joffrey to agree with you was to flatter him, make what you were suggesting seem obvious, make it seem like you were doing a service by bringing it up so King Joffrey didn’t have too.  
  
A glint of light brought Daven’s attention to Lord Mathis Rowan, who had brought his Myrish Eye with him and was getting a good look at the defenders. “If those banners mean anything,” Lord Mathis pointed at part of the rebel’s left flank. “Then they’ve received reinforcements from the Crownlands, but not many. Your Grace still has the advantage of numbers.” His contraption shifted to the left. “Their dragons are at the center, they’ll have command of the field from there.”  
  
Ser Creylen of the Red Hill, a hedge knight and one of Ser Bronn’s men, snorted. “You worry like an old woman,” he laughed at Lord Mathis’ expense. King Joffrey laughed too, which meant everyone else had to laugh as well. Daven forced a chuckle out of his own throat.  
  
As the laughter and forced chuckling died down Daven pushed his gelding up to be next to the king. “Your Grace, womanish as Lord Mathis’ worries are he does raise a point of concern. The dragons could do grievous damage to your knights and other-”  
  
“Ah yes the knights,” King Joffrey didn’t sound concerned. “The land’s flat isn’t it Ser Daven?”  
  
“Yes, Your Grace,” Daven said trying not to sound confused as to King Joffrey’s intentions.  
  
“Then just put the smallfolk,” Joffrey pointed idly at the infantry. “In front of our good highborn knights. The dragons can’t shoot what they can’t see. Ser Raymond,” King Joffrey turned to the Knight of Blackwatch Keep who waited with many petty lords of the Reach. “You and,” Joffrey waved a disinterested hand at the rest of the Reachmen. “The rest of you will take your foot and make up the right flank under the command of Lord Tytos Blackwood,” King Joffrey smiled graciously at the Riverlord.  
  
The lord in question smiled silently in return and bowed in his saddle. “Thank you Your Grace.”  
  
The Riverlord had not done much of anything since he had bent the knee to King Joffrey at Goldengrove. Lord Tywin had not trusted him with a major command and in any case, Lord Tytos had less than a hundred men left to him. But he had been one of the first to reaffirm his loyalty to King Joffrey in the aftermath of the Cockleswent and now he was being rewarded.  
  
“Ser Addam Marbrand will take command of the most all our knights,” King Joffrey continued. “Ser Bronn you’ll have the rear, Ser Daven, take your dragonmen to the left and take command of the left as well. I trust you’ll know best what to do. As for the center,” he smiled. “The center will be under my command.”  
  
“Yes, Your Grace,” Daven said as he bowed in his saddle, but King Joffrey had already turned his attention back to Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Bronn Wolfsbane, waving a bored hand to dismiss him. Daven turned his gelding around and made his way to his appointed position on the battlefield. _His Grace has given me leave to command the left as I wish_. _I’m not sure if that’s wise or foolish_.  
  
Daven joined his dragonmen and their supporting infantry in the center of the army. For all that the Battle of the Cockleswent had been a bloodbath on both sides, casualties amongst the dragonmen had been blessedly light, only a few dead and a few dozen injured. The weapons themselves were all but undamaged, though powder and shot were running low. _This will be the last of it_ , Daven thought, _the last burst of Western dragonfire_. _I pray that one last burst is all that will be needed_. Messengers peeled off from Daven’s party as he led his small guard and the dragonmen onward to the left. They left with Daven’s orders to the knights and lords now under his command. _Ser Lyle Crakehall_ , _Ser Harwyn Plumm_ , _Ser Melwyn Sarsfield_ , _Ser Garth Greenfield_ , _and Lord Robin Moreland_ , Daven mentally recited his main subordinates. His orders were to begin advancing as soon as possible. _The less time Stannis has to blast them with dragonfire the better_.  
  
As Daven rode down the length of the army, the great mass of infantry that King Joffrey had entrusted to him slowly rose to attention as the drums began to beat. Trumpets blared, and banners waved as the infantry slowly gathered their swords, axes, halberds, spears, poleaxes, longbows, crossbows, and half a hundred other weapons. Daven japed, waved, and shouted at them, but most of them remained silent. _Morale’s low_ , _all of King Joffrey’s executions_ , _Ser Bronn’s bullying_ , _and fighting with the Reachmen_. Daven clapped hands with an old pikeman sergeant to cover his dismay. _How can you ask a man to fight when he can’t trust the men standing beside him_?  
  
Daven rode onward, dismounted his gelding, and passed the reins to a page and in one smooth motion mounted an armoured warhorse. The knights and lords under his command were already starting their advance. From his place in the rear Daven could see the trails of dust, flattened ground, and refuse left behind by other contingents of the haphazardly advancing army. Daven pushed on his helm, raised the visor, and kicked his warhorse forward. He pushed forward to the front of the army where the dust didn’t fill the air and he could more clearly see the battle slowly unfolding before him. For a time the army advanced solely to the sound of thumping boots, the beating drums, and the occasional blaring trumpet. But as they approached the pyre the dragons began to roar. A flash of fire and the sound of thunder was all the warning men had before a ball of iron cut them down like wheat before a scythe. Blessedly the enemy fire was drawn toward the right flank.  
  
The flames of the pyre swelled before them as Daven’s men advanced. The thickening smoke provoked a wave of sneezes and coughs from the men. The closer Daven came to the pyre the clearer it’s source of fuel became. _The Seven_. Daven’s stomach almost rebelled at the sight of the Father’s burning face, the Warrior’s sword reduced to a burning stump, and the Crone’s lantern truly aflame. _It’s true then_ , _Stannis has abandoned the Seven in favour of the Red God_. As he watched, the Smith collapsed in on himself. Daven wasn’t the only one to find his pace quickening after seeing what burned in the pyre.  
  
Cries from the right flank of his contingent caused Daven to turn his head. He stood in his stirrups and stretched his neck in a vain attempt to see what was happening. “Go find out what’s happening in the center,” he said to a messenger boy. “And tell my commanders to be wary of an attack from the right,” he said to another pair of messengers.  
  
“Yes mi’lord,” the trio of messengers said, quickly pulling their small, swift, geldings around.  
  
_What’s going on over there_? Daven wondered. _I can’t do much for it but what I’ve already done_. _Focus on the task at hand and do it well_. Dragonshot thundered through a squad of crossbowmen turning them into a bloody mist. Daven turned to his trumpeter. “Signal for double speed,” he commanded. _What’s made them decide to change targets_? The trumpet call was repeated up and down the line. In fits and starts the mass of Westermen infantry pushed forward, toward the enemy. Ahead of them, Daven spied movement and he put spurs to his stallion, urging it forward through the lines of infantry and the dust they were kicking up. The enemy was advancing. Ranks of Stormlanders, Crownlanders, and rebel Reachmen, and amongst the ranks were companies of dragonmen.  
  
_There's hundreds of them_. “Dragonmen! Crossbowmen! Archers!” Daven roared. “Forward as fast as you can! Don’t let them get their shots off!” Trumpets blared, drums boomed, and men roared as the two armies marched into battle. It wasn’t long before quarrels and arrows began to fill the air, casting their shadows upon the earth. Ranks of crossbowmen and archers gathered behind pavise shields to loose their quarrels and arrows from safety. Dragonmen rushed to get into position to fire their deadly lead balls. Infantry of various types rushed forward, from loose bands of smallfolk armed with shields and axes, to disciplined blocks of pikemen, to the sworn swords of noble houses armed with all manner of weapons. The nervousness that had been so prevalent mere minutes earlier was nearly gone, the men were eager for blood. Daven let the tide of men carry forward without him. _If a commander ever has to use his sword then he has done something wrong_ , Tywin Lannister’s voice echoed in Daven’s memory.  
  
The rush of Westermen was checked, not by Stormlanders, by rebel Reachmen, or by Crownlanders, but by the crash of dragonfire. Hundreds of enemy dragonmen fired into the dense formations of Westermen charging at them causing the entire host to flinch as one. But by either Daven’s commands or the men’s own instincts, the Western charge only redoubled their haste. They forced their way forward, clambering over their own dead, without giving the dragonmen time to reload their cumbersome weapons. As the dragonmen fell back their places were taken by Stormlander pikemen, fighting in dense squares with Reachmen and Crownlanders on their flanks. The battle quickly began to descend into a shoving match between the two armies as pike, halberd, sword, axe, mace, and hammer slid against armour and shield. Both sides struggling to gain a momentary advantage in the chaos. Every once and a while a flash of fire and rising smoke signalled the shot of a hand-dragon.  
  
“Ser Daven! Ser Daven!” A messenger careened into the chaos. “Ser Lyle needs help!”  
  
Daven pulled his horse around. “Help with what!” _What does the Strongboar need from me_?  
  
“The center’s breaking! Ser Lyle’s being overwhelmed!”  
  
“Has a message been sent to Ser Bronn?” Daven shouted at the poor messenger.  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Then go there next, we need the reserve to move if they haven’t started already. GO!” The messenger rode away. They won’t make it in time. _Sorry Lord Tywin but sometimes you need to get your hands dirty_. Daven drew his sword and shouted at his personal guard. “WITH ME! HEAR ME ROAR!”  
  
“HEAR ME ROAR!” They screamed.  
  
Daven kicked back his spurs and led his guard into the fray.

 

Mathis  
  
Gunthor slowly lead Mathis’ pliant mare away from King Joffrey’s war council and away from the slowly advancing army. Mathis took deep breaths as he fought to keep the pain from showing. He could feel his leg was swelling in its cast, particularly around the knee.  
  
“Are you alright father?” Gunthor asked.  
  
“Just hurry,” Mathis grunted through the pain.  
  
They plodded along a few seconds more before Gunthor spoke again. “You should have been given command of the right, father.”  
  
“And what makes you say that? Lord Tytos isn’t a poor choice, he has many years of experience,” it burned him a little to defend the Riverlord but, depending on how Gunthor answered, Mathis could take the opportunity to teach his son and heir something.  
  
“He doesn’t know them, the lords and knights I mean.  
  
“And why do you think a commander needs to know the lords under his command?”  
  
“He, uh, he needs to know which of them are cautious or reckless or craven or stupid.”  
  
“Why does that matter?” Mathis pressed.  
  
“Because a lord can’t be everywhere, he has to delegate, and he needs to know who works best where.”  
  
Mathis snorted and reached out to clap his son on the back. “You must’ve gotten your mother’s brains. What else?”  
  
Gunthor smiled as he continued. “And they don’t respect him. How can a knight follow someone he doesn’t respect?”  
  
“Respect is a fickle thing, it can be lost, earned, and then lost again in a single day. Should Lord Tytos command well enough, and there’s no reason he won’t, then that will earn him a measure of respect.”  
  
“But why risk it when you could be in command?”  
  
“Because I’m a cripple,” Mathis said bluntly. “And a cripple isn’t respectable, leastways not a new made cripple. In any case, if I stay on this horse much longer I’ll be half unconscious from pain and poppy before the battle even truly begins.”  
  
Gunthor frowned and they carried on in silence.  
  
Some minutes young Maester Copham tutted as Mathis’ men lifted him into his wagon. “I warned you mi’lord that you were not yet ready to ride.”  
  
“Shut up and drug me,” Mathis groaned as he leaned back on one of the stuffed pillows in the belly of the wagon. His leg was gently, but still painfully, lifted so it would rest upon a pile of goose feather pillows.  
  
Copham snorted as he finished mixing an elixir of some kind in a large bowl. He poured some of the liquid into a cup and then poured some back out, then some back in, and then some back out again, until he was satisfied with the volume. “Drink this mi’lord.”  
  
“What is it?” Mathis asked even as he drained the cup.  
  
“Diluted milk of the poppy. It will dull the pain, but if taken in moderation, won’t dull your mind.”  
  
Mathis passed the empty cup back to the dark-haired younger man. “Thank you,” Mathis paused as Copham accepted the cup without fuss and then turned to examine Mathis’ leg. “Your accent, northern Stormlands?”  
  
“Parchments to be precise. Does this hurt?” Copham prodded Mathis’ big toe a small steel poker.  
  
“Fuck!” Mathis swore as a sharp jolt of pain shot up his leg.  
  
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Copham slid the poker back into a leather case. “That’s good as long as you still have feeling that means the wound hasn’t turned and the cast can be kept on,” he used his long grey sleeve to dust the plaster. “I do hate it when my work goes to waste.”  
  
“I’ll try not to get myself killed then, else your work on my knee would be for naught.”  
  
“I would hope that you’d try to prevent your death out of a sense of self-preservation.”  
  
“Well,” Mathis shrugged and then regretted it immediately as the movement twinged his leg. “Self-preservation went out of fashion in my family centuries ago and I’d hate to disappoint family tradition by starting now.”  
  
“Of course mi’lord,” Maester Copham stood upright and straightened his grey robes. “I fear there’s nothing more that I can do today mi’lord. I’ve mixed a dozen doses of the milk of the poppy, take them once every four hours at most, and only fill it up to this line. No more no less. Do you understand?” The last question was directed at Gunthor.  
  
Gunthor glanced sideways at Mathis before looking back to Copham. “Yes Maester Copham,” he said with all the seriousness a thirteen year old could muster.  
  
Copham nodded and bowed as he left. “Good day mi’lords.”  
  
Mathis waved a hand in acknowledgment. “And too you.”  
  
Mathis sighed in relief as the pain in his knee gradually lessened and the swelling began to go down. He reached down to his belt and pulled the Myrish eye out of its leather case. “Gunthor,” he called and passed the device to his son. “Use those young eyes of yours. Tell me how the battle fares.”  
  
Gunthor wasted no time in clambering out of the wagon, which was fortunate enough to have a place atop a barely five foot rise in the ground. “Seems pretty even, everyone’s just standing around,” he called back to Mathis.  
  
Mathis shook his head and smiled, Gunthor was a bright lad all things considered but he did have his moments. “That’s because it hasn’t started yet.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
A few minutes passed. “They’re moving now.”  
  
“Whose moving?”  
  
“The knights, our knights, and the foot.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“The knights are going around the flank, the right flank, er uhm, to the southwest, opposite the river. The infantry are just moving straight forward.”  
  
“Can you see what Stannis' doing?”  
  
“There’s too much dust to see the rebels, but,” thunder echoed in the distance. “I think the dragons are firing.”  
  
“Firing where?”  
  
“At the right of the army, I think, at the infantry.”  
  
Mathis groaned. _At the Reachmen_ , _at my men_. He grimaced. _Fucking Joffrey_. He rubbed his face. _Do it for Elinor_. _Do it for her_ , _suffer Joffrey and pray Tommen takes the throne_.  
  
Gunthor continued to regularly describe the advance of the army. How the knights were sheltered from dragonfire by the bodies of the infantry. How the advance left a trail of dead behind them. All of it as Mathis had expected, but as the armies began to close in on each other the unexpected began.  
  
“All the dust makes it hard to see, but I think something’s happening on the right.”  
  
“What do you mean by something?”  
  
“They’re falling back.”  
  
“They who? The infantry? The cavalry?”  
  
“Both… and I think… I think there’s fighting happening between different parts of the army.”  
  
“Seven hells. Send word to Ser Marton Broadtree, we need to start moving before Stannis’ men catch us.”  
  
“Yes, father.” Mathis heard Guthor clambered off the top of the wagon and begin running to find Mathis’ bannerman.  
  
Mathis waited in nervous silence for several minutes. The wagon started to shake and then roll forward. “What’s happening?” Mathis asked. There was no response. “Gunthor? Gunthor answer me!”  
  
“Your son is fine my lord,” Ser Raymond Redding said as he and Ser Walder Yelshire clambered aboard the wagon.  
  
“Just a bit bruised is all,” Ser Walder said as he stood to his full height. Ser Raymond looked askance at his counterpart.  
  
Mathis’ eyes flickered between the two knights. _House Yelshire’s sworn to House Tarly and Redding to House Crane_. _Neither are likely to go over to Stannis_. “What is this?”  
  
“Stannis has broken through, we’re retreating,” Ser Raymond said quickly. _Too quickly_.  
  
“Your lying,” Mathis accused. “What’s really happening?”  
  
“I-” Ser Raymond was interrupted by shouting outside that caught the attention of all three men. Ser Walder poked his head out of the back of the wagon. “I’ll handle it,” he said as he leapt out of the wagon.  
  
“What’s he handling?” Mathis asked suspiciously.  
  
“The retreat,” Ser Raymond said.  
  
“So you mean to tell me that Joffrey’s bungled it then or was it Lord Tytos or yourselves who made a mess of this?”  
  
Ser Raymond said nothing.  
  
Mathis continued. “If Stannis had broken through then this wouldn’t be a retreat it would be a rout you’d abandon this wagon and myself without a second thought. So I’ll ask one more time what’s happening?” Mathis felt he already knew but he had to make Ser Raymond say it. _I pray I’m wrong_. _For my daughter’s sake_ _I pray I'm wrong_.  
  
“We, that is to say, Ser Walder, myself, and many of our countrymen have decided to leave Joffrey.”  
  
“You mean abandon Joffrey. So what have you done then?” Mathis fumed, struggling to keep control of himself. “Gone over to Stannis?”  
  
“Never!” Ser Raymond said boldly. “That pyre on the field was what remained of the Sept of Bitterbridge. He’s taken some fiendish foreign god as his own.”  
  
“Then what? You’ll take Robb Stark as your king? Or perhaps you fools will bend the knee to Euron Greyjoy! Or is it to be rebellion for the sake of rebellion!”  
  
“We’ve made our choice! The men of the Reach will not be party to Joffrey Waters and his cruelty. Nor will we make common cause with the worshipers of strange gods, be they drowned or red or old. We will make our own path, though where it leads I know not.”  
  
_Elinor_ … “No.” _The Lannisters will never believe I had nothing to do with this_. “No.” _Not my daughter_.  
  
“My lord,” Ser Raymond seemed to be getting frustrated. “We are prepared to take you into our confidence, you would have a place on our councils but-.”  
  
“You damn fucking fool!” Mathis screamed at him. “What have you done!”  
  
Ser Raymond almost fell backward at Mathis’ outburst. “My lord?”  
  
“You’ve killed her!” Mathis kept screaming. “You’ve all killed her! You stupid bastards!”  
  
“My lord please be calm. What are you-”  
  
“No!” Mathis screamed again. “No! You will leave me ser! Leave!”  
  
Instead, Ser Raymond stood in stunned silence at this outburst.  
  
“Get out!” Mathis reached for his sword, prompting Ser Raymond to trip backward in the moving wagon. Mathis pulled himself upright on one knee, his plastered leg lay at a painful angle, and he was forced to lean on his sword like a cane. He forced the pain away with anger and sorrow. “GET OUT!”  
  
Ser Raymond fled.  
  
Mathis collapsed in tears. “Elinor,” he cried. “I’m sorry.”  
  
The wagon rattled on, further and farther from his daughter.

 

Melisandre  
  
King Stannis stood atop a wooden watchtower twenty feet tall, hastily made from parts of wagons and palisades, gathered around him were lords, knights, and messengers. The three knights of the kingsguard, Ser Richard, Ser Timon, and Ser Andrew stood shoulder to shoulder, making a wall between their king and his councillors. Together they all stood in stunned silence, watching with disbelief as the enemy army disintegrated before the fighting had even truly begun. _No one should be surprised it was foreseen in the fires and made certain by a sacrifice of false idols and the promise of more_. _This is the will of R’hllor_. “The enemies of the Azor Ahai Reborn break and flee before him, praise to R’hllor.”  
  
“Praise R’hllor. Praise the Lord of Light,” echoed the lords, captains, and messengers around Melisandre, Stannis said nothing.  
  
“Your Grace, you have pleased The Lord of Light greatly with your sacrifices, look how He strikes fear into the hearts of your enemies.” Melisandre smiled slightly after Cider Hall attendance at her nightfires had grown considerably, now, even more, would come, but far more importantly this meant that Azor Ahai Reborn reigned uncontested in his kingdom. _When the time comes Stannis will draw Lightbringer and smite the enemy of life_. _The Great Other will be defeated once more and the night will end_.  
  
The Reachmen elements of Joffrey’s army were moving due south in good order, though the edges of the formation were ragged and bloodied where they met the Westermen and Stannis’ own forces. The Westermen, in turn, were rolling back from the fight, their cavalry was split between fighting the Reachmen and was trying to cover a retreat that might not even happen, while their center and left were in confusion, half in a panic, the other half still advancing under the weight of dragonfire.  
  
Stannis ground his teeth. “Signal Ser Mark Mullendore, Lord Justin Massey, and Lord Renfred Rykker, to attack the Westermen if they haven’t begun doing so already. The reserve will come with me and cut the two parts off from each other.”  
  
“Yes Your Grace,” the courtiers said as one, before scattering to deliver and enforce Stannis’ commands. Stannis remained unmoving, leaning forward on the edge of the tower.  
  
Melisandre advanced toward the king, pausing before Ser Richard Horpe as the kingsguard remained unmoving. “Let her pass,” Stannis said after a moment. The Lord Commander of Stannis’ kingsguard shifted aside, bowing his eyes in respect, as Melisandre passed.  
  
“The Lord of Light desires another sacrifice,” Melisandre said to Stannis as the messengers and commanders rode away.  
  
Stannis was silent, his jaw clenched, and his teeth grinding. “What sacrifice would you and your god have of me? Another sept or perhaps a godswood this time?”  
  
“False idols can only go so far Your Grace. To retain the Lord of Light’s favour you must go further. Give up a sacrifice of flesh and blood.”  
  
Stannis scoffed. “Am I to be Aerys the Mad come again?” He turned and began to make is way down the watchtower.  
  
Melisandre followed and from the final landing said. “There will be many prisoners after today. Traitors and turncloaks. No one would see their deaths to be amiss.”  
  
Stannis stepped down from the watchtower and mounted his horse. He looked at her, from the back of his steed he could look her in the eyes. “Your god would be pleased to have false knights and traitorous lords sacrificed in his name? I thought the point of sacrifice was that what was sacrificed had to be worth something.”  
  
“Our god,” Melisandre took a step toward the edge of the landing and extended a hand to take the reins of Stannis’ horse. “The Lord of Light finds value and worth in the lives of all mankind. Even the false, the foolish, the traitors, and the turncloaks.”  
  
“I will think on this,” Stannis said after a moment.  
  
“You have taken R’hllor into your heart, Your Grace, I know you will make the wise choice.”  
  
Stannis turned and without a word, he rode away to his commanders, followed by three white shadows. Melisandre waited in silence, looking out across the field of unbelievers doing battle. A knot of resistance still remained but by and large, the battle was already won. _This is the work of R’hllor_. In silence, she left the watchtower and made the short walk to the fire she had lit before the battle, not the great pyre where the false idols burned, but a smaller fire where the faithful could find solace before risking their lives. _The world is shrouded in darkness but in the cold flicker candles of faith that push back the darkness_. _Slowly the fire spreads consuming the darkness and spreading the holy light of R’hllor_. Pleased by the valour of the faithful she stared into the flames.  
  
R’hllor it seemed did not desire to send a great vision to her, not now in any case. Images and visions did come, but they were fragmented and haphazard, rarely lasting more than a second before being consumed. Nonetheless a few did strike a place in her mind as being significant. A dragon fighting a horde of rats. A shining forest grew inside a walled city. Men and women fell one by one off of a rock. Crows battled against wild beasts in the snow. Seven daggers surrounded a crown. She narrowed her eyes and concentrated on the visions but the more she did the faster they were burned away. _Hidden by the hand of R’hllor_ , she pursed her lips, _it’s His will that shows me visions and His will that takes them away_.  
  
Hoofbeats caught her attention. She turned and saw Devan Seaworth waiting for her attention. The boy dismounted and walked up to her. “His Grace commands that you are to prepare another pyre,” the boy said.  
  
Melisandre smiled at him. “Of course,” she offered a hand to him. “Come, look into the fire.” The boy took her hand and she pulled him forward to take her place. “Look carefully Devan, pray to R’hllor, and you might see your father,” she left him alone to do what Azor Ahai Reborn and R’hllor commanded of her.  
  
Her servants built the pyre quickly, using broken barrels, crates, and scrap timber for kindling, the atop it they piled lumber, and all of it was built around a central post. When it was done all of the wood was soaked in oil. Torches were readied and set aside for when the sacrifices would begin. With her task done Melisandre joined Stannis where he held court on the open field, a camp chair atop a dais made of crates functioned as a throne, the kingsguard and dragonmen surrounded the king, and Justin Massey spoke for him. While most of the prisoners would be sent back to King’s Landing to meet their fate, Stannis had decreed that there would be two exceptions.  
  
“Lord Tytos Blackwood, you are brought here to answer for the crimes of treason and rebellion,” the blond knight proclaimed as dragonmen led the captive forward. “What do you have to say for your defence?”  
  
“Your Grace,” Lord Tytos Blackwood knelt. “Please forgive my indiscretions.”  
  
“Indiscretions?” Justin Massey grinned. “I suppose it is a tad indiscreet to take up arms against the rightful king. Twice. Once in the name of a rebel and a second time for a usurper.”  
  
“My life was threatened,” Lord Tytos protested. “Joffrey's cruelty is unimagin-”  
  
“Hah!” Justin Massey interrupted again. “I squired for King Robert what Joffrey Waters can do is very imaginable to me and most everyone in His Grace’s court.”  
  
Lord Tytos Blackwood rose to his feet. “I will not be mocked!”  
  
“But you would make a mockery of justice?” King Stannis asked, speaking to Tytos Blackwood for the first time.  
  
“Your Grace I-”  
  
“Twice you and your house have had the chance to bend the knee. Your liege lord bent the knee, your neighbours bent the knee, and House Blackwood remained defiant. Even now Raventree Hall is under siege.” Stannis stared down at the lord from his makeshift throne. “Tytos Blackwood, I attaint you, I strip you of all your lands and titles, and I condemn you to death. Take him,” a pair of soldiers dragged the stunned former Lord of Raventree Hall away.  
  
Ser Daven Lannister was brought forward next. The man’s great blond beard and shoulder length hair was matted with blood. The Lannister knight said nothing as his captors forced him to his knees.  
  
Justin Massey spoke in Stannis’ stead again. “Ser Daven Lannister, you are named a traitor to the Iron Throne, do you deny this?”  
  
Daven Lannister swayed in place. “I do,” he said at last. “Joffrey is my king. He is the rightful king, his father’s heir.”  
  
“Joffrey is no more a rightful king than my horse is,” Ser Justin japed. He waited for Ser Daven to say something and when he did not he sighed. “If you have nothing more to say,” Justin Massey turned to Stannis. “Your Grace?”  
  
“Daven Lannister,” the king intoned. “I attaint you, I strip you of your titles, and sentence you to die.” Two soldiers took the former knight away. Stannis stood to his feet. “Lady Melisandre, begin.”  
  
“Your Grace,” Melisandre bowed and followed the path already by Tytos Blackwood and Daven Lannister, Stannis followed her, and one by one the rest of the court followed. The two men were already being tied to the post. Faithful armed with spears surrounded the pyre and moved aside to let their priestess and their king pass by them and approach the pyre. One of them lit a torch and held it ready.  
  
When the sacrifices were solidly tied in place Melisandre took up the burning torch and stepped forward. The sacrifices were beginning to tremble but their courage had not wholly abandoned them. The two men stood in silence as Melisandre approached with the torch. Melisandre stopped at the base of the pyre.  
  
She raised the torch and shouted. “Behold the fate of those who choose the darkness,” then she threw the torch onto the pyre.  
  
The flames rushed red, orange, and yellow over the oil soaked wood. Melisandre remained in place as the flames erupted from the pyre. The heat did not bother her and she did not fear for burns. The two men stayed silent as the flames reached upwards, but they were beginning to squirm and cough as heat and smoke began to torment them.  
  
Tytos Blackwood broke first. His coughs and groans turned to screams and he began to writhe in agony. Daven Lannister lasted a bare half minute longer before his own screams began. As they screamed the flames swept upwards leaping from tinder to wood to cloth. Searing flesh and boiling blood. Daven Lannister’s long beard and hair caught fire. It almost looked like he had a halo shining around his head. To the rest of the crowd, these seemed to be only flames but Melisandre saw further. She saw the flames for what they really were. _They are the fiery hands of the Lord of Light_ , _come here to drag their souls to burning justice_. A short time later and their screams were silenced as R’hllor’s hands reached down their throats and turned their lungs to ash.

 

Sansa  
  
One by one a line of men, women, and children in dirty shifts and ragged clothes took their places on the edge of the cliff. They were from the Reach, after weeks imprisonment more word of Reachman treachery had reached Casterly Rock, and Queen Cersei responded. With a single word from Queen Cersei dozens of men, women, and children were thrown to their deaths. Tossed by red cloaked guardsmen from the heights of House Lannister’s mountain fortress. Their screams echoed over the rocks and through the still afternoon air before being suddenly silenced and replaced by the crash of far away waves, somber silence, and weeping. Weeping from the prisoners, many of whom were younger than Sansa, and weeping from Myranda Lefford, Sansa’s goodmother, who wept for the death of her son. It was in Daven’s name that these executions were being carried out, vengeance Queen Cersei had said. “Vengeance for a betrayed king and a murdered cousin. House Lannister always pays its debts.”  
  
While weeping, screams, and the crash of distant waves filled the air, Sansa’s soul flew far above it all. _I am free_ , she thought, _free of Daven and free of weddings_. _Free for a time at the very least_. _A widow cannot be made to wed so long as she is in mourning and I will be in mourning for a very long time_. She kept her face carefully blank as more prisoners were sent to their deaths.  
  
Word of the betrayal had come by raven. King Joffrey claimed that in the moment of victory the Reachmen, led by Mathis Rowan, had abandoned him and it was only his own courageous leadership that had kept what remained of his army alive. Rumours of how large what remained varied, some said that only a few thousand remained, but others claimed that the greatest part of the Western host had escaped, some fifteen or twenty thousand men.  
  
In the end, it mattered not those that Queen Cersei had taken prisoner only weeks before were now being killed. Distracted by the spectacle as they were Sansa was able to slip backward and into the maze of hallways that stretched within Casterly Rock. Sansa turned left where most everyone else would have turned right. She took another lonely turn and then another and then another until she was walking all alone. She walked down long halls carved from living stone. Some of them were tunnels really, old mining tunnels dug by ancient Lannisters or even more ancient Casterlys. Some of the tunnels and halls sloped upwards or else were carved with stairs. They led Sansa to the windy heights of Casterly Rock where the heart tree waited for her. There were easier ways to reach the Stone Garden, far easier, but they were filled with people. People who would want to talk about Sansa’s deceased husband and that was the last thing she wanted to do.  
  
The Stone Garden was deserted, as it usually was, in trying times like these most everyone in Casterly Rock preferred the solace of the sept. Occasionally some of the maids or servants would come to the Stone Garden but they came for a much different kind of worship then what Sansa had in mind.  
  
Sansa sat before the heart tree, thinking of her last visit, her accusations and what had happened since. “My husband is dead,” Sansa said, choking back a cruel laugh as tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said with uttermost sincerity.  
  
For a moment as Sansa smiled as she stared at the roaring, almost leonine, face carved into the tree. She remembered those long ago days when her father would take all of her siblings to pray in the godswood at Winterfell. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as she remembered her father taking her and Arya to the oaken heart tree in the Red Keep to give thanks for Bran waking up from the wounds of his fall. She sniffed as her tears grew stronger. _It's funny the face almost looks like Bran._ Tearfully, Sansa reached forward and placed her hand upon the twisted heart tree’s roaring face.  
  
The world disappeared. Everything became clear and everything was shrouded in darkness. Light burned her mind. A wordless soundless scream ruined her ears. Her blood sang and her bones vibrated. Goosebumps prickled her skin. She saw the tree with her eyes but her mind saw more.  
  
_IT’S COMING_ , something said, something vast, terrible, alien, and freakishly familiar. Sansa felt it speaking, instead of hearing it, and saw, as though from a distance, that she was bleeding from her nose, from her eyes, and from her ears. The blood trickled down and fell upon the ground which shook like an earthquake was happening.  
  
The drops of blood became hills, which became mountains, and then the blood congealed into corpses. Lions, bears, wolves, dragons, stags, and people, so many millions of people. Above the dead fought a pair of crows whose size rivaled that of Balerion the Black Dread. One had three red eyes and the other bore only one eye. Even as the crows fought the skies darkened to night, the wind rose to a howl, flinging the dead into the air, and with the storm came the cold. An evil cold that went beyond any winter the world had ever known.  
  
She saw a man raping a woman, and for a moment she was the man, but then it changed and Sansa was the woman and the man was Daven, and then Daven changed, his hair turned black, his skin turned pale and clammy, and his eyes… Sansa tried to scream but she had no mouth and silence reigned.  
  
_THE STORM IS COMING_. She saw blood and vomit in pour from her own mouth and saw it dribble down her chin and onto her breast.  
  
She saw a storm building, a storm great enough to rip the mountains from the earth. A storm to wipe all the land away. She saw the Iron Throne laying at the bottom of the sea wrapped in seaweed and filth, while blue eyed demons crawled over it, and a black monster wrapped in tentacles sat amongst the barbs and blades, and all the gods lay dead amongst the blades. The Seven, the Drowned God, and even the broken faceless weirwoods of the Old Gods.  
  
The black monster rose and was joined by a red monster and together they tormented a golden woman who lay in chains. The red monster wrapped her hands around the golden woman’s throat and began to strangle her. The golden woman’s face turned blue, then black, and her skin peeled away to reveal the maggots beneath, and the monsters feasted upon them, the maggots and the woman.  
  
_THE EVERSTORM COMES_ , it spoke again, it’s voice all but breaking Sansa’s mind as she wept tears of blood. She saw nothing and everything. Heard only an endless silence and the heartbeat of every creature in Westeros. Slowly flashes of something began to pierce the nothingness of sight and sound, fog and fire, ships and a shattered mountain, a cold north wind, and the endless cackling of crows.  
  
The light faded and the sound quieted. Sansa’s hand fell from the heart tree and she collapsed to the stone ground as every muscle in her body turned to water. Numbly she felt her stomach continue to release its contents. As unconsciousness took her she heard what sounded like two people speaking. One was distant yet familiar the other closer, stranger, and terrible. She tried to hear the familiar voice but it was too distant and overshadowed by the other voice. _I am the storm_...  
  
Sansa woke in her bed, cushioned by pillows and a blanket so thick she felt like she was being smothered. She heard someone speaking, but their voice was muffled as if she was hearing them through a stuffed pillow.  
  
“She’s awake!” Myrielle shrieked as she saw Sansa moving. The blonde girl quickly came to Sansa’s side. “We were so worried the maesters said they’d never seen anything like it.”  
  
Sansa pulled away from the Lannister by instinct. Her lips twitched in a momentary snarl, making Myrielle flinch, and then the darkness took Sansa again.  
  
When Sansa woke again she was alone in her room. Dull sunlight and a cool wind poured through an open door. Sansa opened her parched mouth and moaned, her entire body ached and shivered, despite the warm blankets. She twisted and rolled, then pulled herself upright, and dragged herself out of the bed. Her head hurt, her mind hurt, and it swirled busily with half a hundred images. She bundled herself in blankets and crept across the room to her dresser and the pitcher that awaited her there. With trembling hands the reached for the pitcher of lemon water on her dresser and drank deeply. The crash of waves drew her attention and Sansa slowly shivered her way across the room and onto the balcony.  
  
The sun was hidden from the earth by thick grey clouds and the sea was shrouded by a thick fog. Even as the noonday sun beat savagely upon her balcony the fog seemed to, if anything, only grow thicker as the day passed on. As the fog grew thicker it seemed to form a wall, a great rampart of shifting water and air, that separated the sea from the land. Sansa could see the harbour of Lannisport and the boats that moved within it from her balcony but not those that traversed the Sunset Sea. Not that there were many ships in such weather. The risk of running aground or hitting a rock was too great for most captains. Or so Sansa supposed as she saw no ships leaving or entering the harbours of Lannisport or Casterly Rock. Until a single strange ship came out of the fog. The ship looked oddly boxlike, it had queer ribbed sails, and it made its way directly to the open harbour only to stop in the narrow opening of the sea walls.  
  
Suddenly flashes of fire appeared to come from the inside of the ship and puffs of fog appeared beside the ship. Or is it smoke? And a sound like distant thunder washed over her. Sansa watched in fascination as the towers that flanked the entrance and housed the great harbour chain began to collapse into the sea. A flash of light presaged a headache that quickly swelled behind Sansa’s eyes. She leaned forward, trying to focus through the pain, and watch the goings on in the harbour.  
  
The small Lannister fleet that remained to defend Lannisport was moving to counterattack, their galleys looked like insects next to a great fish when compared to the attacking ship. Sansa gripped the banister so tightly her hands turned white. Kill them! Kill the Lannisters! Slowly a half dozen of the Lannister war galleys surrounded the foreign ship hitting it with their rams and beginning to board it. Then an explosion tore the ship and the war galleys apart, sending pieces of burning wood across the tiny fleet and setting it aflame. Yes! Yes! It took all of Sansa’s control not to shout and leap in joy as the Lannister fleet backed oars to try and escape from the burning ships. Soon the entrance to the harbour was a maze of broken, burned, and sinking ships. That’s when Sansa noticed more movement in the fog. More ships were coming, small ones, long and thin, quick and nimble, they expertly moved through the burning maze and into the harbour attacking the larger, but panicked, Lannister galleys. Swarming them from all sides like a pack of wolves attacking a moose. There seemed to be an endless tide of these ships coming out of the fog. _Who are they_ , she wondered, if the ships had banners they were too small for Sansa to see.  
  
Then more movement brought Sansa’s attention back to the open ocean, larger ships were coming from the fog, some of them were true war galleys with their sails unfurled for all to see, and from them, Sansa now saw who these attackers were. On the sails and banners were scythes, horns, silver fish, bone hands, grey trees, bloody moons, and above them all the golden kraken of House Greyjoy. As the ships advanced the fog descended upon Lannisport. A twinge in her mind caused a flash of pain and brought Sansa’s eyes falling to where her hand lay upon the stone of Casterly Rock and a thought rose to the surface. _Fog and fire_ , _ships and a shattered mountain_...  
  
Sansa was laughing like a mad woman when Myrielle and Cerenna found her.


	20. Chapter 19 (Arya, Catelyn, Arianne)

Arya  
  
After Queen Selyse and Lord Alester discovered her watching them they imprisoned Arya inside her chambers. She soon lost count of how many days she’d been locked away. The only people she saw were the servants tended her chambers, bringing food, drink, and changing her bedding. As the days paste her by Arya tried to escape her chamber, her cell, twice.  
  
Arya made her first attempt when the servants arrived with her breakfast. She rushed past them as they opened the door. She squeezed her skinny body past their hips and into the hall beyond them. The women shrieked, but the pair of Baratheon guardsmen outside her room moved like wolves. In seconds they'd grabbed her arms and forced her back inside. They didn’t beat her afterward like the Lannisters would have. _Thank the gods for small mercies_ , Arya thought as she nursed the bruises on her arms. Instead, the Baratheons simply denied her food for the rest of the day.  
  
Next, she tried to climb out of her window. She opened her window late in the afternoon. At a time when the setting sun cast her window and the tower wall into shadow and any guard would have to look into the sun to spot her. She pulled open the shutters and slipped out. Letting her legs dangle over the edge. Then she froze, suddenly climbing the heights didn't seem like such a good idea. One look at the vast space of empty air beneath her sent her head to spinning. Arya climbed back inside as fast as she could. She closed the window behind her. _Bran could have done it_ , she thought, as she climbed into her bed. _He wouldn't have been afraid_.  
  
Weeks after her imprisonment began the door opened and the guards entered her room for the first time since her escape attempt. They were accompanied by a pair handmaidens. “Your presence has been requested mi’lady,” the older handmaiden said.  
  
Arya wanted, almost by instinct, to defy them. But as much as she didn’t want to admit it she wished to be free of her chambers more than anything. Arya took one last bite of her bacon and left with the handmaidens.  
  
Arya followed the handmaidens through the halls of the Red Keep. Her guards were never far behind her. As she took her place in the throne room's gallery Arya saw Stannis for the first time. He was tall and broad like both of his brothers. Unlike his brothers, King Stannis’ black hair was cut very short, from the distance his hair and beard looked like a shadow. His skin was tight and like leather over his face rather than rushed with colour like Lord Renly’s had been, or with wine as King Robert’s face had been. The king sat upright on the Iron Throne, looking straight forward, and barely deigning to glance at his subjects as the filled the hall.  
  
In the shadow of the Iron Throne sat the Small Council. Old Lord Ardrian Celtigar, distinguished Lord Yohn Royce, ancient Lord Eldon Estermont, the silver-haired and proper Lord Alester Florent, and a red-haired woman in red robes Arya had never seen before. Queen Selyse and Princess Shireen were there as well. As Arya took her seat in the gallery, close to the Iron Throne, she saw Shireen wave at her. After a moment's hesitation, Arya waved back. _Be polite_ , _be proper_ , _be courteous_. Arya repeated the words like a prayer.  
  
Slowly, the throne room filled with the lords and ladies of Stannis’ court. Arya recognized some of them from her time at King Robert's court with her father, but most were new faces. Despite this, somethings hadn’t changed at all. The courtiers still mingled in small groups and cliques. One, larger than the others, had gathered in the opposite end of the throne room from the king and the Small Council. At first glance, there was nothing to distinguish them from the other lordly cliques. But upon a closer look, Arya saw that each man had a seven-pointed star sewn into the breast of his doublet. Slowly the room filled and the chatter grew until King Stannis raised a hand to silence the hall.  
  
Stannis did not wait on ceremony, with a word he began to deliver his judgement. The prisoners from Bitterbridge were brought in one by one. First came the Westermen. Barely more than a hundred of them, they seemed pitifully few compared to the soldiers that surrounded them. A few Arya recognized from her weeks at Harrenhal. Lannister men, she thought, and she smiled as Stannis dispossessed them of their lands, titles, and freedom. Only a rare few of the Westermen were allowed to bend the knee and then be accepted into the King's Peace. Some of the Westermen were sentenced to death by the king. But the fate of most was to spend their lives in exile at the wall or in Essos. The Westermen accepted their fate with grim silence.  
  
Next came the Reachmen. They were fewer in number than the Westermen and seemed far more uncertain. Stannis waited the last prisoners were put in their places before he spoke.  
  
“Thrice you have defied my offer of fealty,” he said to the Reachmen. “And four times you have raised your arms against me in battle. At Storm’s End, at Bitterbridge, at the Cockleswent, and at Bitterbridge again. You have seen the fate of those who swore their oaths to me. To rise high in my service and be justly rewarded, there can be no excuses for your treachery. I strip all of you of your lands and titles, I denounce you and sentence you to die.”  
  
The Reachmen erupted from silence into panic and anger. A man with a huge black moustache rushed forward, struggling against his chains, and he screamed at Stannis. “Mad King! Heathen! Apostate!”  
  
A soldier smashed him in the face with the pommel of his sword. Stunned and spitting blood and teeth, the man didn't resist as the soldiers dragged him away. Even as the soldiers beat them to the ground, the Reachmen continued to hurl insults and accusations at the King on the Iron Throne. All the while Stannis sat like a statue on the Iron Throne.  
  
Stannis stayed still and silent until the last prisoners were forced out of the throne room by his soldiers. Then Stannis spoke again. “Lord Justin Massey.”  
  
A smiling blond man Arya recognized from her first day back in King’s Landing strode forward and kneeled before.  
  
“In the light of the death of Lord Davos Seaworth, I confirm unto you the position of Lord Commander of Dragons.”  
  
Whatever that means, Arya frowned as the blond lord smiled, bowed, and returned to his place among the soldiers.  
  
“Tycho Nestoris of the Iron Bank,” Stannis’ called, and a tall, thin man, with a long narrow beard came forward.  
  
The man bowed once to the king and then stood still in dark purple robes. “Thank you, Your Grace, for seeing me.” The Braavosi waited a moment for Stannis to respond, but the seconds stretched into awkward silence he began to speak. “His Grace, King Robert, borrowed heavily from the Iron Bank during his rule.”  
  
“I know very well who my brother borrowed from,” Stannis interrupted. “And I know very well why you are here. You’ve come to take back your borrowed gold.”  
  
Tycho Nestoris bobbed his head like a bird. “The debt is substantial, Your Grace, and with the war ending the Iron Bank believed that the time was opportune to approach you about the matter of the debt.”  
  
“You are a worse pirate than Salladhor Saan.” Somewhere in the crowd, Arya heard a man laugh. “And this war is not yet done, but a true king pays his debts." Stannis leaned forward slightly. "I will acknowledge the debt, and begin payments once Joffrey Waters is in chains, and Casterly Rock has fallen.”  
  
Tycho Nestoris’ face revealed nothing, but he bowed politely to the king. “I will be staying in King’s Landing these next few weeks Your Grace. Should Your Grace wish to discuss matters in more detail I would be most happy to do so.” Then the banker turned and left the throne room.  
  
A quiet pause passed over the hall as everyone waited for Stannis to speak again, but it was not the King who spoke it was his Hand.  
  
Silence passed through the hall as everyone waited for King Stannis to speak again, but it was not the King who spoke, instead it was his Hand.  
  
Lord Alester rose from his place amongst the Small Council and strode quickly to stand at the base of the Iron Throne. “My lords and ladies, knights, loyal men, and women," Lord Alester spoke loudly and clearly. "Let us rejoice in King Stannis’ victory over the false king, the abomination, Joffrey Waters, and his band of rebels and traitors. Let us rejoice that His Grace, Stannis the One True King of Westeros has won such a battle at so little a cost.”  
  
Lord Alester paused and tentative a round of applause rose from all those present. Save, Arya noticed, from the Small Council, where the woman in red robes sat in silence. Lord Alester waited for the applause to end naturally before continuing his speech. “Such battles have of course happened before in the long history of Westeros. My own ancestor King Garth V Gardener won such a battle against House Yronwood. The Battle of the Princes, where no less than seven Yronwood princes went to the Stranger, ending the Dornish threat for a generation. Afterward, King Garth founded one of the greatest orders of knighthood in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, the Order of the Green Hand." He paused for a breath. "An order that helped to forge a hundred petty kingdoms into a single mighty realm. Not for naught is it said that the Kingdom of the Reach was born on that day. His Grace, King Stannis, has chosen to honour of his own victories and the sacrifices of his lords and knights. By founding his own knightly order. Today will mark the first day of the Order of the Iron Throne.” A roar of applause rose from the gallery as lords and ladies rose to their feet to welcome the first knightly order founded in centuries.  
  
King Stannis stood and descended the steps of the Iron Throne. At the broad base of the Iron Throne. There he was joined by Lord Alester and the six knights of the kingsguard. Together they stood in a line as a hundred men came forward to accept their place in the Order of the Iron Throne. Each man was made to swear again, or for the first time in some cases, their vows of knighthood, and to swear an oath of loyalty to Stannis, the King on the Iron Throne, to Shireen, the Princess of Dragonstone, and to the Iron Throne itself. They swore by whatever gods they held. Most swore by the Seven, but also to the Old Gods, the Red God, and even to the Drowned God. For a pair of grizzled father and son sellswords called Erik the Elder and Erik the Younger, swore their oaths before Ser Richard Horpe and Ser Rolland Storm. Steelshanks Walton, the Bolton man who had led Arya’s guards on her way to King’s Landing, knelt and rose Ser Walton Steelshanks, a knight in service of the Iron Throne. Stannis himself knighted dozens, the first two of which were Allard and Maric Seaworth.  
  
Nearly an hour passed by before, all the newly made Knights of the Iron Throne had sworn their oaths. Only then were those present allowed to leave. After the audience, Arya’s guards returned her to her rooms. The hours passed much as they had previously. But as the sun began to set, the guards outside opened her door to let the Hand of the King into her room. Arya stood as the old man stepped to the center of her room. The thin silver-haired lord towered over Arya. Lord Alester’s silver silk doublet glittered with garnets and lapis lazuli.  
  
“Sit,” he commanded.  
  
Arya bit her tongue as she tried to hold back her anger. “Yes my lord,” she curtsied as gracefully as she could. “Would it please my lord to-”  
  
“Stop,” Lord Alester interrupted her. “My ancestors invented half of the courtesies in the Seven Kingdoms. So please, stop butchering them.”  
  
Arya went silent in shock.  
  
“What?” Lord Alester asked as he sat in one of the chairs. “Did you actually think that you were fooling anyone with the wit to look?" He shook his head. "You can’t trick a fox at his own game.” Arya stood silently. “Sit,” Lord Alester said again. “Do not make me repeat myself a third time.”  
  
Glumly, Arya sat and waited for Lord Alester to continue speaking.  
  
“We highborn," Lord Alester mused. "We spend all our lives learning how to talk for hours without saying anything at all. Most of us anyway,” he smirked. “Some prefer to simply speak their minds and damn the consequences. His Grace is like that." Lord Alester shifted slightly and focused his keen pale green eyes on Arya. "You tried to conceal your true nature and failed. You're stubborn, willful, and proud. Had you been born a boy or even simply your father’s heir those traits might have been encouraged. As it stands you’re a poor lady." Lord Alester shook his head despairingly. "Then you let yourself get caught spying on me and the queen."  
  
Arya's face fell and she stared at her feet. Her face flushed red with embarrassment. She’d not felt so humiliated since her lessons with Septa Mordane.  
  
Lord Alester sniffed. “Were it up to Queen Selyse you'd be in the black cells right now or mayhaps executed for treason," he chuckled. Arya eyed him nervously. "Instead Princess Shireen has invited you to dine with her tonight," Lord Alester chuckled again. "Do you know why that is."  
  
"No," Arya said hesitantly.  
  
"Because for some reason only the gods know she likes you," he shook his head. "A bare month ago Shireen wouldn't have dared to so much as disagree with her mother. Now she openly defies her and all for you. I think you had some part to play in that. I trust you'll accept the princess' offer?”  
  
“Yes my lord,” Arya answered quietly.  
  
Lord Alester stood quickly. “Excellent.” He left without a moment’s hesitation, not bothering to close the door. A pair of servants entered, armed with a new dress

 

Catelyn  
  
The wedding was a swift affair. It was held in the Wolf’s Den, the ancient fortress that White Harbour had been built around. Within the ancient fort were a godswood and a heart tree. Beneath the great spread of its branches the wedding couple was joined by all their family and all their loyal vassals. The lords and knights sworn to House Manderly and more who came from farther away. They were petty lords, landed knights, and freemen. The greatest of these was Ser Medger Locke, the stocky heir of old Lord Ondrew Locke of Oldcastle, who came with half a thousand foot and fifty horse. Robb welcomed him with good grace and granted him a seat on his council.  
  
Lady Wylla arrived in a dress of silver, blue, and green. Her green dyed hair was tied into a tight braid that fell down over her shoulder. Her great blue-green cloak dragged along the ground behind her. Robb waited by the horrible scowling face of the heart tree. He was clad in a grey tunic of the finest wool. A snow white cloak emblazoned with a leaping direwolf hung from his shoulders. The cloak, dress, and tunic had, save for a few last minute adjustments, already been ready for the ceremony. _Lady Wynafryd prepared her household well for this moment_.  
  
It was decided that it would be best not to waste time on a lengthy and dramatic wedding ceremony. Ser Marlon led Lady Wylla through the godswood and the crowd of watchers to where Robb waited for her. Together they began to speak the words that would bind them in matrimony for the rest of their days. Catelyn felt her eyes well with unwanted tears. They rolled down her face and fell onto her lap. Unbidden, her eyes fell to look at her legs. Even hidden beneath a thick, tearstained, fur blanket it was obvious that her muscles had withered away. That her legs, which had once been strong and shapely, were now as thin and brittle as sticks. Even if she were to miraculously regain their use today, she would lack the strength to stand.  
  
When she looked back up the ceremony was almost over. Robb reached awkwardly over his shoulder to pull his cloak around with one hand. But it was not her son and gooddaughter that caught Catelyn’s attention. It was the huge heart tree that stood guard in the center of the Wolf’s Den. So massive its branches stretched into the nearby windows and halls of the castle. According to legend, the scowling face had been carved to frighten away the pirates and slavers that had once threatened the North. Now the scowl seemed oddly familiar and far less horrible to look upon. She fought back more tears as she remembered how Bran would scowl if he was caught doing something he shouldn’t have done. She looked away from the eyes and Robb was pulling his cloak around Wylla’s shoulders. Without the aid of a second hand, he nearly dropped it, but he caught it at the last moment. Husband and wife kissed once, and a cheer swelled from the lords and ladies of the North. Then the king and the new queen led their people back to the New Castle. Catelyn followed, pushed along in her cursed chair by a servant. As servants and guests gathered in the hall for the wedding feast, the bride, groom, and their closest family travelled to the House Manderly’s private sept inside the New Castle.  
  
The septon said his words quickly and dabbed Robb and Wylla on their foreheads with holy oils. The wedding in the godswood had been swift but the wedding in the sept took barely a fifth the time. Before all the guests had even made their way into the great hall of the New Castle, King Robb and Queen Wylla had taken their places on the dais, flanked by their mothers. Catelyn sat by Wylla and Lady Leona sat next to Robb. Lady Wynafryd's own seat on Catelyn's other side.  
  
The feast passed by in a blur, just as the wedding had. For a time Wylla tried to make small talk with Catelyn and Robb but eventually quieted as neither Stark felt much like speaking.  
  
For all that White Harbour was soon going to be under siege the feast was stocked with far from simple fare. There was black stout, yellow beer, red, gold, or purple wines, brought up from the warm south on fat-bottomed ships and aged in the New Castle’s deep cellars. The wedding guests gorged themselves on fried cod, eels, hills of peas, and three great bowls of simmering fish soup. On the fires, roasted slabs of mutton and beef charred almost black. The center of the feast was a huge pie. It’s crisp crust stuffed to bursting with carrots, onions, turnips, parsnips, mushrooms, and with lamprey swimming in the juices. As she watched a Manderly bannerman tripped as he cut a slice out of the pie and sent a fifth of it spilling onto the table, Catelyn felt her face grow tight at the sight of such waste.  
  
“None of it would keep,” Wynafryd Manderly leaned over to answer Catelyn’s unvoiced concerns. “None of this would keep long in a siege. It's better to eat it now and start the hardship stuffed to bursting with food and joy. Even now our servants and soldiers are taking every bit of grain, barley, and livestock from our lands. Our ships scour the Bite for seafood. The enemy is at yet a week distant. Whatever is eaten here will be replenished a tenfold.”  
  
Catelyn said nothing as she chewed her lamprey without thought.  
  
The bedding was nearly as swift as the wedding. As the last of the great lamprey pie was finished the chanting began. Men and women, their wits and tongues loosened by wine and ale, rose almost as one as they called for the bedding. Most brides were nervous at best when it came time for the bedding, but Wylla seemed to embrace her role. She japed and teased the men around her as they carried her up the stairs. Robb, on the other hand, was as tense a man as Catelyn had ever seen. Catelyn finished her meal and had a servant take her to bed.  
  
Robb came to her again that night. Her servants left quietly to leave Catelyn and her son in solitude.  
  
“Ser Marlon and Lady Wynafryd still refuse to give me command of their host. Unless I defend White Harbour.”  
  
“Then that is your only choice.”  
  
Robb huffed. “Wars aren't won hiding behind walls.”  
  
“Wars aren't lost that way either,” Catelyn said. “Swords, spears, and arrows are all fine weapons but they are not the greatest weapon in your armoury.” Robb stayed silent as he waited for Catelyn to finish. “Your name is. You are Eddard Stark’s heir. Your father was beloved in almost every part of the North. The longer you stand defiant against Roose the more men will rally to your cause. Send out riders to gather the North, raise an army out of the fields, the woods, and the mountains.”  
  
Robb stood and began to pace back and forth. “Yes!” He said. “Yes! I’ll turn every house in White Harbour into a fort. Every square and alley into a death trap. All of White Harbour into an enormous trap to fix the turncloaks in place for all the North to fall on them. Hah!”  
  
Joy grew in her heart to hear Robb be something other than haunted and shaken for the first time in months. But it was tempered by the knowledge that it was only the promise of more bloodshed that had pushed back the shadow around her son.  
  
Galbart Glover left at dawn leading a company of two score riders, mounted on four score of the swiftest horses in White Harbour. They went north armed with letters, banners, and promises from the King in the North.  
  
Catelyn spent most of the next week in relative solitude. For all their courtesy the ladies of the New Castle avoided her. Catelyn saw the glances they gave at her chair, at her legs. Rather than socialize Catelyn instead fell into the comfortable habit of her needlework. She stitched patterns more from habit than any real desire.  
  
The army gathering within the walls of White Harbour swelled for weeks only to suddenly shrink when Robb commanded Maege Mormont lead half the army out to gather at Winterfell with whatever reinforcements Galbart Glover gathered. Thousands of the city's denizens left with Lady Maege. Most of them were women, children, the old, and the sick. What remained of the population was quickly put to work fortifying every inch of the city, and supplying it for the coming siege. Foodstuffs, stones, and lumber were gathered from outside the city by hundreds of wagons every day. Buildings were torn down to clear the ground for archers. Only one gate was kept in use, the rest were sealed by rubble. The fishing fleets worked tirelessly to take all they could from the sea. White Harbour stank with the smell of smokehouses working at all hours to preserve as much fish and meat as possible.  
  
The energy that had returned to Robb that night continued to burn brightly. He rushed from one end of White Harbour to the other, and often ranged beyond the walls, dealing with troubles and issues in person. He lent his royal authority to nearly every part of the preparations. But as the days passed by, word of Roose Bolton’s coming grew. The enemy’s scouts and outriders were skirmishing with foragers. As the enemy army neared the skirmishing outside the walls grew fiercer, and the enemy grew more numerous. Eventually, the foragers were forced from the lands of House Manderly altogether by the ferocity of the enemy outriders. But that paled in comparison to the devastation the enemy fleet wrought at sea. In a single night more than half of the Manderly fishing fleet was destroyed or captured, and much of the rest were left too damaged to sail and were instead left to be torn apart for material. The few survivor’s put much of the blame on the actions of a war galley with ghostly grey and black sails.  
  
The next day the enemy fleet blockaded White harbour. The huge war galleys floated menacingly in the cold waters of the Bite. The day after that the fields around White Harbour turned dark with enemy soldiers.  
  
The next day an envoy came with a banner of truce, a weirwood branch still full with leaves like bloody hands. Robb bade her come with him as they rode out to where the enemy commanders awaited them.  
  
Roose Bolton waited for them a mile from the gates of White Harbour. He was flanked by Ser Imry Florent and Lord Harrion Karstark, with more captains, lords, and knights behind him. Most prominently were grizzled and one-armed Harwood Stout, young and proud Dale Seaworth, old and crooked Arnolf Karstark, plump Duram Bar Emmon, and Ramsay Snow the pale-eyed Bastard of Bolton. Beyond them, their army was still preparing their camp for the siege.  
  
Robb rode forward accompanied by Ser Marlon, Ser Helman Tallhart, Ser Medger Locke, and Catelyn herself. Her son brought his white and grey dappled horse to a halt ten feet from Roose Bolton.  
  
The Lord of the Dreadfort’s pale eyes passed over Robb and his companions, settling for a moment on the straps that bound Catelyn to her saddle. She was half surprised when no cruel smile or piteous look came over his face. Roose Bolton simply looked past her like she was barely there. “My lords,” he said at last. “How good of you to come treat with me this fine day.” The low sound of thunder to the southwest gave lie to his words.  
  
“There is nothing good in this,” Robb spat. “Only a duty to hear what you would say.”  
  
“Oh but I come with such good news for House Stark,” Roose said quietly, the cold northern wind almost stealing his words away. “I wonder, did Ser Helman make mention that he was told of my loyalties by a young servant girl?”  
  
“He did,” Robb said suspiciously after a moment’s silence broken only by the distant sound of thunder from a storm far to the south. “That girl risked her life to reveal your treachery.”  
  
“I’ve no doubt that she’s paid dearly for that since then,” Ser Helman spat. “Traitors cannot risk loyalty in their midst.” That set off a bout of muttering and pointed glares from the lords behind Roose Bolton.  
  
The would-be Warden of the North said nothing at first if Ser Helman’s barb had bothered him he gave no sign. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on Robb. “She’s safe and sound in the Red Keep, a personal guest of King Stannis. I’m told she’s becoming a close friend of Princess Shireen.”  
  
“What game are you playing at Bolton?” Lady Maege asked. “No Riverlands servant girl is a worthy companion of a princess.”  
  
Finally, Roose Bolton smiled slightly. “You’re correct of course, no servant girl would be a worthy friend, but the youngest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark would be.”  
  
Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat. Since the beginning of the war, she’d had little news of Sansa and none at all of Arya. Save that the Lannisters were keeping them both in King’s Landing. For a moment silence ruled the day, but only for a moment.  
  
“You’re lying,” Robb said, breaking the silence as suddenly as it had come.  
  
“Why would I do that?” Roose Bolton seemed almost amused by Robb’s anger. “I have no reason to lie.”  
  
“It’s not possible," Robb growled. "The Lannisters had my sisters imprisoned in the Red Keep.”  
  
“They lied," Roose said plainly. "Lady Arya fled the Red Keep during the chaos of Queen Cersei’s coup and joined the company of a man of the Night’s Watch who intended to take her back to Winterfell. Perhaps it’s well that they ran afoul of Ser Amory Lorch, else Lady Arya would have been delivered to the Ironmen, who would no doubt be less gentle than King Stannis.”  
  
“Why tell me this? The Lannister’s had a sister of mine captive and I fought on. You can’t possibly have expected this news to make me surrender now?”  
  
“My pardon but you seemed so concerned about family when we parted ways at the Twins,” Roose Bolton shrugged slightly. “I had thought that you’d want to know.”  
  
Robb’s anger simmered as he spoke again. “Did you desire to speak for any reason besides gossiping like an old woman?”  
  
The north wind blew harder and colder for a moment. It sent Catelyn’s cloak flying behind her and goosebumps racing up and down her body. Thunder echoed far to the south.  
  
Roose Bolton shifted slightly in his saddle, his pale eyes never failing to meet Robb’s. “How much food have you stockpiled within? Not enough, never enough. Not helped by the efforts of Lord Captain Imry and Lord Dale. How many fishing boats did you sink?” He turned slightly to glance at Dale Seaworth.  
  
“Fifty-four answered,” the young lord, the son of a smuggler, answered. “No less than ten by _Wraith_ herself.”  
  
Roose Bolton looked back at Robb. “White Harbour will fall,” he shifted slightly to face the lords behind Robb. “Though it remains to be seen who will fall with it.”  
  
Robb bristled at the threat but didn’t let his anger speak for him. “I could say the same to you, my lords.”  
  
Eyes like chips of ice returned to Robb. “You're confident. Tell me, were you confident at the Feast for Crows as well?”  
  
Robb’s hand darted toward his sword and the rebels did the same. Dale Seaworth drew his sword fully and pushed his horse forward to block the path to Roose Bolton. The Lord of the Dreadfort himself merely pulled gently on the reins to give Dale Seaworth more room.  
  
“My lords,” Catelyn shouted. “Your Grace. Let us not dishonour this banner of truce.”  
  
Robb hesitated for a moment before his hand fell to his side. A moment later Dale Seaworth sheathed his sword. For a moment both parties stared at each other. Then Robb pulled on his reins and rode away. Catelyn and the other loyalists followed. Southern thunder echoed and the northern wind howled.

 

Arianne  
  
Arianne left Sunspear in the company of Tyene, Ser Andrey Dalt, and five Martell guardsmen led by Ser Daemon Sand, who her father had named her sworn shield. The party of nine exited through the Threefold Gate in the late hours of the evening. They ventured from Sunspear into the Shadow City under the cover of darkness. Their party was mounted on swift Dornish sand steeds and together they made the journey to Planky Town in only a single night.  
  
In the shade of the earliest hours of the morning, they joined Timoth, one of her father’s most trusted servants, who had been sent ahead three days earlier to arrange passage on a ship. Timoth was waiting for them by the harbour at the mouth of the Greenblood and quickly guided them to a Pentoshi trading cog. The ship was called the _Nightingale Dream_ and it was bound for Tyrosh, Myr, and half a hundred other towns that dotted the coast of the Disputed Lands. From Myr, _Nightingale Dream_ would head north to Pentos, King’s Landing, Gulltown, and Braavos. The old dignified captain hurried them aboard in thickly accented Common Tongue and showed them to a dark cabin. Inside, Arianne and her companions made themselves as comfortable as possible before falling into their beds. They were all asleep before the first rays of true sunlight rose above the horizon.  
  
When they woke, well after midday, they discovered that the _Nightingale Dream_ hadn’t left Planky Town alone, it travelled in the company of three other ships. Two were Pentoshi cogs called _Dancing Cat_ and _Summer Prince_. The third was a galley named _Red Sunrise_. At first, the lean and swift ship flew no banners, but once they passed out of sight of the Dornish coast _Red Sunrise_ let fly a gruesome banner depicting a black skeleton worshiping from a blood red sun. From Arianne's glances of the motley and well-armed crew, it didn’t take much to make her suspect that she sailed in the company of pirates. Though why pirates would be protecting a convoy of merchant ships she knew not. Later, she raised her questions in the limited privacy of her shared cabin.  
  
“The Golden Company has made common cause with pirates before,” Tyene said. “More than once in fact. I think that they mean to do so again.’  
  
“I agree,” Ser Andrey Dalt said from the comfort of a hammock. With his green felt hat pulled over his face one would be forgiven for thinking that he was asleep. As he spoke he sat up and pulled the hat on straight. “There are many who still remember the Ninepenny Kings on both sides of the Narrow Sea.”  
  
“Hmph,” Ser Daemon grunted. “Allies or not, pirates can’t be trusted they could just as easily betray us and deliver you,” Ser Daemon jerked his head in Arianne’s direction. “To their master and hold you for ransom or worse.”  
  
“We’ll be on our guard then, not that there’s much more we can do,” Arianne said. “Unless you suggest that the four of us and five guardsmen could fight an entire pirate’s crew by ourselves?”  
  
“Hah,” Ser Andrey laughed. “That would make quite a song to sing of.”  
  
In the end, their fears proved to be unfounded. _Red Sunrise_ kept its distance and when their convoy was approached by dark sailed ships with a predatory look about them it turned to face them. Thrice _Red Sunrise_ turned and thrice the would be attackers sailed away rather than face the lean red galley.  
  
Their voyage took them through the twisting maze of islands that formed the Stepstones. From every shore rose crumbling stone and wooden keeps. Often they were surrounded by ramshackle seaside villages, always with at least half a dozen ships at harbour. In time they passed through the Stepstones and into waters patrolled by Tyroshi pirate hunters. _Red Sunrise_ turned back before they sighted even a single Tyroshi ship. They passed without incident to the coast of the Disputed Lands. Here, every town had walls and a garrison of militia or sellswords, and every person lived in fear of a coming war, and here there was always a coming war.  
  
They departed the _Nightingale Dream_ when it made port at a large coastal town called Kyros. The stout stone walls were heavily manned by Myrish crossbowmen. Above the ramparts flew the red banners of Myr and a banner that showed a crossed sword and lightning bolt. Some newly made free company, Arianne thought as she and her companions made their way to one of Kyros’ four inns. Once safely ensconced within the Iron Lilly, Arianne sent one of her men to each of the other three to hear what they might hear. Such places were always rife with rumours.  
  
Hours later her men returned and spoke of what they'd heard. Most of the rumours concerned the growing tensions between Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr. Many more were about the Golden Company and how it had yet to take a contract in the rising conflict between Lys and Tyrosh, despite generous offers from both cities. Worries were whispered that the Golden Company meant to take one of the Free Cities for their own and establish a new kingdom. They wouldn't have been the first free company to try. Some concerned the conflict in Slaver’s Bay. Rumours alternately claimed that Daenerys Targaryen’s army had been shattered and that she had been sold into slavery. Others rumours claimed that the dragon queen had burned her enemies alive and had littered the Ghiscari cities with their bones. It was said that the Company of the Cat and the Long Lances had taken a contract with Meereen or Yunkai and had taken ship to Slaver’s Bay. There were rumours from the west as well, though they were of less interest to Arianne, for her father now kept her well aware of what his spies heard in the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Still, it was amusing to hear the locals speak of Stannis like he was Aegon the Conqueror come again. _We will see_ , she thought, _we will see_. With a sigh, she pulled her blanket tighter and went to sleep.  
  
They bought horses the next day, paying the hostler eight times their worth in gold, silver, and quiet threats from Ser Daemon and Ser Andrey. They left Kyros as the first rays of sunlight broke through the spires and roofs of the town. They made haste from the town, rising hard through the hot plains of the Disputed Lands. All the while seeing the results that nearly three centuries of constant war had had on the land and the people. Farms laid abandoned and villages emptied themselves long before they passed through them. In Dorne, the villagers would have come out to greet them or to sell food and wine. In Dorne, a party mounted on horses would almost always have coins to spare, but here a mounted party would only bring death.  
  
By midday, a light rain had begun to fall. As yet, they had seen no signs of the continual fighting that plagued the Disputed Lands but the signs were there, burned houses and the corpses of animals and people. They moved southeast into the interior of the peninsula, to where lands only nominally served Myr, Lys, or Tyrosh at the best of times. They were entering the domain of sellswords, free companies, and bandit lords. The scouts of the Golden Company found them an hour before sunset and led them to their destination. The Golden Company was waiting for them.  
  
Their camp was one of order and discipline, organized into row after row of neat tents separated by wide and clean earth tracks. Every soldier they saw was working. Every man seemed to have some assigned task, be it cleaning the already clean camp, sharpening weapons, repairing armour, or training with their comrades. A few soldiers paused in their tasks to watch Arianne and her company as they passed through the camp, but they quickly returned to work. From deeper in the camp, Arianne heard the sharp crack of hand-dragons. They're a brotherhood of exiles and the sons of exiles, united by the dream of Bittersteel. It's a home they want, as much as gold, Arianne reflected as she entered the heart of the camp. A courtyard of clear ground surrounded the great cloth-of-gold tent of the captain-general. Gilded skulls mounted on poles made a ring around the tent.  
  
She entered the tent accompanied by Tyene and Ser Daemon and was confronted by a sea of colourful figures. The high officers wore their wealth on their person. They displayed a kind of crude splendor. Their bounty included jewelled swords, inlaid armor, heavy torcs, and fine silks. On the arms of nearly every officer was a lord’s ransom in golden arm rings, each signifying one year's service with the Golden Company. Every man except for three.  
  
The first was an older man, likely past forty, with a lined clean-shaven, and leathery face. The corners of his pale blue eyes were marked by crow’s feet. His hair was grey but retained a tint of red, especially in his eyebrows. The second man was handsome and young, several years younger than Arianne if she guessed true. He had a lanky figure, like that of someone who had yet to meet their full growth. His hair was dyed blue and he appeared to have dark blue eyes. But when the light shifted they seemed purple instead. He stood as Arianne and her companions entered the cloth-of-gold tent, watching them curiously. Arianne knew immediately that this was Aegon and that the older man was Jon Connington. In her excitement, she almost missed the presence of the third man. He was small and short and slight, with sharp features. His dark hair was run through with grey and a small pointed beard marked his sharp chin. He wore a doublet of plum silk with puffed sleeves. His black cloak was lined with fox fur and was pinned at his breast with a silver mockingbird. He was smiling when Arianne met his grey-blue eyes.


	21. Chapter 20 (Mathis, Daenerys, Sansa, Hokaro)

Mathis  
  
The branches swayed gently in the breeze and their shadows played over Mathis. He lay on his back watching the sun move slowly across the sky. Watching the shadows shift as the day passed. _The days are getting shorter_ , he thought, _winter is coming_. He turned his head slightly to see Ser Raymond Redding, Ser Walder Yelshire, and Lord Torwood Middlebury arguing again. For weeks now they had hidden southern edges of the Kingswood, in the foothills that marked the borderlands between the Reach, the Crownlands, and the Stormlands. A territory that had been fought over for centuries between House Gardener, House Durrandon, and at their height House Hoare as well, before the borders were fixed in place by Aegon the Conqueror.  
  
Ser Walder screamed something at the other two men before stalking over to Mathis. “Get up we need to have another meeting.”  
  
Mathis grunted as he sat up, pressure pushing on his still wounded leg. “I’m sure it will be a rousing discussion. Just like last time, and the time before that, and the time before that.”  
  
“If you have a better idea than talking I’m all ears.”  
  
“Ideas are fickle things and I find that being kidnapped and dragged across half the Reach tends to blunt them somewhat.”  
  
Ser Walder spat and stormed off. With another grunt of pain, Mathis brought himself to his feet, cane in hand he limped after the other would-be commanders of the would-be army.  
  
Twenty thousand men had fled from Bitterbridge, for the second time for Mathis and many others. Ser Raymond and Ser Walder had led them due east following the course of the Blueburn. Their direction had not been chosen by military need or political strategy but by the base instinct of animals fleeing a predator. They moved hard and fast, those who fell behind were left behind and Mathis doubted that Stannis showed them much mercy. They had been pursued by a host of Stannis’ horse, mostly their fellow Reachmen, commanded by Lord Elwood Meadows. Though too few in number to threaten the main part of the fleeing Reachmen. Their numbers were more than enough to harass and to cut down any man that fell behind. Four days of forced marching had brought them to a ford over the Blueburn ten miles west of Grassy Vale. It was there that a brief battle had been fought against the enemy. Lord Elwood had fallen upon their rear during the crossing and savaged it. They had lost a few hundred dead, injured, and captive, but were able to retreat in good order.  
  
After the battle, Ser Raymond had led them south to avoid the lands of House Meadows and their castle, Grassy Vale. Though, Ser Walder Yelshire had insisted on leading a small force to wreak havoc upon House Meadow's lands. After that, they had continued east into the hills where the Red Mountains met the southern reaches Kingswood. Safe, for a time at least, they'd set about to arguing over their next move. That’s where they’d been stuck for weeks now.  
  
Things were quickly made even more difficult for them when the rumours inevitably spread. Even in their remote location came traders, bandits, and deserters found them easily and told their stories. They said that Joffrey was dead or that he’d turned the tide and killed Stannis. A few fools had claimed that Stannis had adopted Joffrey as his heir and the war was over. Some whispered that Stannis had decided to burn all the Reach for his fire god. Others believed that the Ironmen had sacked Casterly Rock or had joined forces with Stannis or Joffrey. They spread quickly and the mood of the army became consistently worse. Mathis knew that most of the rumours were wrong but he couldn't say for sure which were false. The men believed them and in the end that was all that mattered. And as the endless meetings continued to prove fruitless the men began to desert. As yet their numbers were still small, a dozen or so every night, but Mathis knew that the trickle would soon become a flood if a decision couldn't be made.  
  
Mathis arrived last of all the commanders. Their council was two smaller this day. Ser Gavin Oldflowers and Lord Uffering hadn’t bothered to come. Mathis snorted, at the last meeting they had mentioned joining with Stannis, but it seemed that they’d been the only ones to not have heard the rumour that Stannis’ had executed all of his prisoners from Bitterbridge at King’s Landing. A rumour that had come from a dead raven’s letter and so carried more weight than the others. Both men had been all but laughed from the tent. _Not that there are many more options for us_ , Mathis thought as he took his seat. _Joffrey is simply not an option of course_ , _and the Tyrells would have no fondness for those who had joined Lord Mace’s killer_. Come to think of it Mathis hadn’t seen Ser Gavin in days. _Probably fled_.  
  
“My lords,” Ser Raymond said. “We all know why this council has been called. We must come to a decision else this army will melt.”  
  
“It’s already melting,” Ser Walder groused.  
  
Lord Torwood ignored the knight and fingered his beard. “Neither Joffrey or Stannis will welcome us and the Tyrells have no future with either king.” He shook his head. “At this point, I think our only choice is to cross the Narrow Sea.”  
  
“And accept defeat?” Lord Uffering puffed.  
  
“Accept the reality that we have nothing left in the Seven Kingdoms to fight for, beyond vague ideas of honour or righteousness. Better men than us could perhaps inspire an army to fight for such. But we are not those men. Essos is where we must go the Golden Company has long been a home for exiles such as us.”  
  
“Not a home,” Mathis said. “More like a great lake that gathers every stream of exiles that crosses the Narrow Sea. To join the Golden Company is to give up all hope of return.”  
  
“Then please Lord Mathis what do you suggest?” Lord Bart Risley asked.  
  
“Mayhaps we should crown a new King of the Reach?” Ser Raymond Redding japed before Mathis could respond. For a moment everyone present was silent as they thought. “Oh come now I wasn’t serious.”  
  
Lord Torwood Middlebury sighed behind his great white beard. “Serious or not it is an idea that must be considered.”  
  
“W-who would be king?” Stuttered Ser Bart Risley.  
  
Lord Torwood fixed a keen eye on Mathis. “Lord Mathis, House Rowan is descended from Garth Greenhand is it not.”  
  
That peaked the interest of all present, even Ser Walder Yelshire deigned to take his boots off a camp stool and give his full attention to the meeting.  
  
“Garth Greenhand is my ancestor,” Mathis said quietly. “As are the Gardener kings, though their blood runs thin in my veins. Further, for nearly two hundred and fifty years House Rowan has held the title Marshall of the Northmarch.” He paused, and for a moment he was almost tempted to accept their offer, to crown himself and to be a king. _I reached too far too fast_. _In my hubris_ , _I thought to make myself goodfather_ , _Hand_ , _and regent to a king_. _And for that the Seven punished me_. He shook his head and looked up at the petty lords and knights. “I have no interest in being your king. I’m a man of tradition and no Rowan has ever been a king. I’d hate to destroy my family legacy by being the first, and likely the last, to be crowned.” A chorus of groans and sighs came from the knights and petty lords.  
  
“It’s likely to be destroyed anyway if Stannis has his way!” Ser Walder Yelshire snarled before standing and stomping away from the table.  
  
Mathis and the others followed a few seconds later, though with less ill grace. Their meeting today had been as productive as every other thus far, not at all. Not that Mathis cared very much. Of late Mathis rarely cared about anything at all. Mathis returned to his part of the camp and fell asleep to the sound of rain, with an empty bottle of wine by his side.  
  
That night almost fifty men left the camp. The night after, it was thirty and a hundred more deserted on the third night. After that men didn't wait for night to fall before deserting. The camp grew smaller every day. Men slinked home like beaten dogs with their tails between their legs. They hoped only that they would be left alone. That the fury of Stannis or Joffrey or the Ironmen would pass them by. At the end of the week, the army had shrunk by a quarter. Ser Walder Yelshire tried to stem the desertion at first, but he himself deserted on the fifth day. Mathis stayed only because he couldn't bear to return to Goldengrove. To see the tears in Bethany’s eyes, to hear the silence in the halls instead of Elinor’s laughter.  
  
A week past him by without another meeting and Mathis was still lying beneath the warm sun. Autumn had arrived, but winter was not yet here, insects and birds still chirped and sang beneath the noonday sun. Idly, he pulled a blade of grass from the ground and wound it around and between his fingers and knuckles.  
  
“My lord,” a smooth voice said.  
  
Mathis turned his head to see a cloaked figure silhouetted by the sun. “Who are you? What do you want?”  
  
“You don’t recognize me? Oh, my lord, you wound me,” the man pulled back his hood and kneeled next to him.  
  
Varys, Mathis recognized the Spider now, though he wore riding leathers rather than silk robes and stank of sweat instead of perfume.  
  
“Did Joffrey send you or Cersei? Are you an assassin as well as a spymaster? I’m surprised you have the balls to kill with your own hands.”  
  
“I’m not here to kill you, my lord,” the eunuch said smoothly.  
  
“Hmph. Then I’ll repeat myself. Why are you here? To bring me back into Joffrey’s fold? That ship has long since sailed beyond the horizon.”  
  
“I am not here at the bidding of Joffrey or Cersei, but for another king.  
  
“Not Stannis?” Mathis asked incredulously.  
  
Varys the Spider smirked. “No, not for Stannis. I fear he wants my head only slightly less than he wants yours.”  
  
“There aren’t any other kings then unless your loyalties lie with the Starks or worse the Greyjoys. I always figured you to have more sense than to hitch yourself to a mad horse.”  
  
Varys crossed his legs and sat down beside Mathis. He shook his head. “How quickly the lords of the Seven Kingdoms forget. Who brought me to King’s Landing from across the Narrow Sea?” He asked. Varys drew something from his bag and pressed it into Mathis’ hand. “Who did I serve loyally until the very end?”  
  
Slowly, Mathis looked down to what Varys had pressed into his hand. He looked up at the Spider. “I’m listening.”  
  
Varys sang a sweet song of heroics and dashing deeds, a hidden prince, an exiled lord, and the return of the rightful king. _Maybe he’s lying_ , Mathis thought, _maybe this is all a trap_ … Mathis clenched his fist, breaking the strands of glass wound between his fingers. _Maybe it doesn’t matter_.  
  
The next morning the better part of fifteen thousand men marched east beneath the red and black banners of House Targaryen’s three-headed dragon.

 

Daenerys  
  
Astapor was burning. Smoke billowed up and up into the blue sky from behind the red brick walls in endless columns. Daenerys’ vanguard arrived before the red brick walls at noon, her rearguard did not arrive until evening. Even her mere presence sent new pillars of smoke rising from the city. That night her people didn’t need the light of the full moon to see. The fires of Astapor gave plenty of light. When the morning sun broke horizon Dany was woken by Irri’s hand on her shoulder. “Jorah the Andal is here,” she said.  
  
“Dress me then bring him to me.” Dressed and cleaned she met with her bear.  
  
“Emissaries from the factions within Astapor, khaleesi,” her knight said as he bowed. Dany nodded and Ser Jorah continued. “They came with the dawn. Some through the gates, others climbed over the walls. They started fighting each other outside the camp were it not for the Unsullied intervening they would have killed each other.”  
  
Dany’s frown deepened. “Where are they now?”  
  
“In separate tents and under guard.”  
  
“Did any profess loyalty to the council I installed?”  
  
“No khaleesi, though many professed their loyalty to you.”  
  
Dany stood and turned away from Ser Jorah. She walked the length of her pavilion to the open panel that gave her a view of Astapor and the smoke rising steadily from the city. “Keep them under guard. Interrogate them, learn everything about the faction that you can.”  
  
Ser Jorah bowed. “Yes khaleesi,” he turned but only made it halfway to the exit before he turned back to face her. “Khaleesi… what methods would you permit?”  
  
Dany turned away from her knight to look upon the smouldering ruins of Astapor. “Whatever methods are necessary.”  
  
The interrogations, the tortures, lasted most of the day. Most of the emissaries were only too willing to speak at length about the strengths and weaknesses of the other factions or even of their own if they thought that it would please Daenerys. It did not. Their petty squabbles had left Astapor more a ruin than it was before. Thousands were dead, slavery was reinstated, and the children of the Good Masters were being used to raise a new generation of Unsullied. There were a dozen or more factions fighting for power in the city. Gangs of freed slaves savagely ruled tenements and city blocks, while Cleon the Butcher King’s men reigned over most of the city. there were even a few Good Masters who had escaped Dany’s purge and remained hold up inside their pyramids. The streets of Astapor ran red with blood and anarchy. And all of that was from before news of Dany’s return had spread through the city. The freed slaves had risen in revolt against Cleon, though many seemed to want to only replace Cleon and his clique with themselves. Cleon’s forces themselves had fallen into civil war as a tanner named Dhary tried to usurp his former overlord. Every would-be ruler felt the best way to secure themselves was to convince Daenerys to join them.  
  
“I cannot make peace with these men,” Dany said to her council. “They’re fools, murderous, bloodthirsty, fools, almost as bad as the men I overthrew.”  
  
“Then there is only one choice,” Ser Jorah said. “The Meereenese and Yunkai’i march behind us. We cannot allow ourselves to be trapped between their army and the walls.”  
  
“Astapor must fall,” Arstan said provoking a distasteful look from Ser Jorah.  
  
“A keen observation,” her bear said with more than a hint of venom in his voice.  
  
Dany ignored this and instead called the commander of her Unsullied forward. “Grey Worm, what do you think? Can the Unsullied take Astapor?”  
  
Grey Worm stepped forward and spoke without hesitation. “The walls are not so strong as Yunkai’s, the defenders are not so strong as the Yunkai’i, or as united, and the Unsullied know Astapor. Its walls and its streets.” He tapped his spear on the ground twice. “Astapor will fall.”  
  
“I agree, Ser Jorah said. “Astapor is not Yunkai and Cleon is not the Wise Masters and their allies.”  
  
“Then go,” Dany said. “Prepare my forces to attack tomorrow.” All of her council rose to leave but Dany raised a hand. “Arstan, please stay.”  
  
Arstan bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace.”  
  
When all had left Dany spoke to the old man. “This my legacy,” she said looking out to the smoke rising into the sunset. “Fire and blood,” she all but spat.  
  
“No Your Grace,” the old man said as he came to her side. “Cleon and the rest did this to Astapor, not you.”  
  
“If it weren’t for me Cleon would still be a butcher, not a despot.”  
  
“If it weren’t for you, tens of thousands would still be enslaved and thousands more would suffer and die every year under the Good Masters.”  
  
Dany stood silently, watching the smoke rise. “You said… You said that you fought in the War of the Usurper?”  
  
“I did Your Grace.”  
  
“Alongside my father and brother?”  
  
“King Aerys did not take the field. But yes I fought under Prince Rhaegar’s command at the Trident.”  
  
Dany blinked away the shadow of tears. “Viserys told me that Rhaegar died bravely, but Viserys told me many things I now know to be false.”  
  
“Prince Rhaegar died with honour, Your Grace. In single combat with Robert Baratheon.”  
  
“Died with honour...” she said wistfully. “Were you in the Seven Kingdoms when the Usurper died? Do you know how he died?”  
  
“I was Your Grace and yes I know how. It was a boar that felled him, a great beast that ripped Robert’s belly open.”  
  
“He killed my brother but was slain by a boar,” Dany shook her head. “Tales of the Usurper’s prowess at arms must have been exaggerated by time and distance.”  
  
“By time and drink more like,” Arstan said. “Fifteen years ago, in his prime, he was as great as the tales said. He could easily best half all but two of his Kingsguard.”  
  
Dany pursed her lips. “I hadn’t heard that.”  
  
“It is not a well known a tale. Jon Arryn, Robert's Hand, convinced Robert not to boast of it lest he embarrassed the kingsguard. Though the Kingslayer did so with his mere presence,” Arstan finished darkly, true anger in his voice.  
  
Dany turned sharply. “How do you know that?”  
  
“The Kingslayer-”  
  
“Not him.” Dany interrupted. “How do you know the mind of the Usurper’s Hand?” _How many times was I warned of the Usurper’s knives at my back_? _Now I fear one is within reach of my throat_.  
  
Arstan fell to his knee. “Forgive me, Your Grace. Forgive an old knight for his falsehoods.”  
  
“You claimed you were a squire.”  
  
"I was, Your Grace." He dropped his staff and let both knees and hands fall to the floor. "I squired for Lord Swann in my youth, and at Magister Illyrio's behest, I have served Strong Belwas as well. But during the years between, I was a knight in Westeros. I have told you no lies, my queen. Yet I did not speak the truth either, I wove falsehoods and there are truths I have withheld, and for that and all my other sins I can only beg your forgiveness."  
  
"What truths have you withheld?" Dany did not like this. "You will tell me. Now."  
  
He bowed his head. "At Qarth, when you asked my name, I said I was called Arstan. That much was true. Many men had called me by that name while Belwas and I were making our way east to find you. But it is not my true name."  
  
Dany shook her head, confused and angry. He deceived me for months. “Who are you?”  
  
“My mother named me for my grandfather. My name is Barristan Selmy, Your Grace.”  
  
For a long moment, the only sound around them was the rustling tents in the wind. “Why are you here?" She asked. "You served the Usurper for years, decades, why are you here?”  
  
"To serve, if you will have me." Ser Barristan had tears in his eyes. "I took Robert's pardon, aye. I served him in Kingsguard and council. Served with the Kingslayer and others near as bad, who soiled the white cloak I wore. Nothing will excuse that. I might be serving in King's Landing still if the vile boy upon the Iron Throne had not cast me aside. It shames me to admit, but when he took the cloak that the White Bull had draped about my shoulders and sent men to kill me that same day, it was as though he'd ripped a caul off my eyes. That was when I knew I must find my true king, and die in his service… Her service Your Grace."  
  
Dany stood silently for a single, long minute. Arstan, Ser Barristan, knelt before her just as silently. The breeze played with his long white hair.  
  
“Leave me,” she said at last. “Leave me and find armour and weapons befitting a knight. When the morrow comes you will be the first over the walls of Astapor. You will lead the Unsullied in taking the city or die in the attempt. Should you survive then I will decide your fate.”  
  
Ser Barristan rose swiftly and bowed. “As Your Grace commands,” he left just as swiftly.  
  
Dany didn’t turn to watch him leave. She stayed awake late into the night. She stood and stared at the fire and ruins of Astapor.  
  
It seemed that Cleon was not entirely a fool. As the sun rose to banish the night, it revealed that the walls of Astapor were now manned with bands of Cleon’s militias. The Unsullied had gathered five hundred yards away from the crumbling brick walls. The first ranks were armed with ladders and mantlets saved from the assault on Yunkai. Their lines were spread thin, to let them attack as great a length of the walls as possible. In addition, there were five columns each one aimed at one of the weakest points of the walls. Two more columns were kept in reserve should the worst happen. Behind the Unsullied were thousands of freedmen volunteers, all eager to take back their city. Ser Barristan had taken a place in the front line of one of the columns. A horn blew, and the Unsullied began their silent advance.  
  
The reign of Cleon the Great ended as it had begun, in an orgy of bloody violence. The Unsullied swept the militias from the walls in barely more than half an hour. The columns smashed through the holes, gaps, and gates of the crumbling walls and the Unsullied were once again unleashed upon the streets of Astapor. Many of the defenders fled from the fighting when the walls fell, but some of Cleon’s or Dhary’s loyalists or the more vicious gangs knew that there would be no quarter given. So they resisted and where they fought the fighting turned into a street to street, house to house, and room to room, battle of stamina and discipline. Two things that the Unsullied had in abundance. The enemy broke even faster than they had on the city walls. Dhary was killed in the battle by Ser Barristan as the would be king and his rebels tried to make a stand in the Plaza of Pride, but were instead cut down by the old knight and a company of Unsullied.  
  
At the orders of Grey Worm and Ser Jorah the Unsullied moved through the city streets in a broad arc. Funneling the fleeing enemies away from the tenements and the pyramids, which could too easily be turned into fortresses, and toward the Plaza of Punishment. Once the bulk of the enemy were forced into the plaza freedmen came forward with carts and wagons to form makeshift barricades to keep the prisoners inside their open air jail. Despite the efforts of the Unsullied they couldn’t contain all of Dany’s enemies. Cleon and his most loyal followers fled to the safety of the Pyramids and and fortified themselves within. Grey Worm and Ser Jorah opted to leave them within their tall prisons.  
  
Dany entered the city with the sunset, surrounded by a hundred Unsullied and Strong Belwas. Drogon and Rhaegal flew above her, while Viserion walked on the ground behind her. The Unsullied had cleared the streets of the dead and dying for her, forming a path that led Daenerys to the Temple of the Graces. The streets were free of bodies but the signs of battle still remained. Blood pooled inches deep in the streets, bits of mangled flesh still occupied the gutters, and clouds of glistening green flies flew in buzzing swarms. Rising into the air as the passage of Dany and her guard disturbed them, only to fall back to their feast seconds later.  
  
Ser Jorah, Grey Worm, the Green Grace, and a bloodied and injured Ser Barristan were waiting for her at the Temple of the Graces. Rhaegal and Drogon flew higher and higher, circling the top of the temple, chasing each other. Viserion curled into a ball and snorted smoke at Ser Jorah.  
  
The Green Grace, a grey-haired woman somewhere between fifty and sixty, raised her arms as Dany dismounted her silver and cried out. “Hail the Breaker of Chains, the Mother of Dragons! Astapor welcomes you.”  
  
“And what a welcome it was,” Daenerys said evenly. “Spears and slings on the walls, thousands dead, and Cleon still defiant. It was you who crowned Cleon did you not.”  
  
To her credit, the Green Grace did not blink or waver. “I made a choice great Queen. I chose to crown Cleon because I thought it might bring peace to my city and its children safe. I was wrong and now I welcome you for the same reasons. I pray I am not wrong again.” The Green Grace slipped forward. “Your Grace, the people of Astapor are yours now and forever, twice now you have delivered them from tyranny and death.” She reached into her stole and produced a circlet of woven gold and silver. “The crown is yours as it should have always been.”  
  
Dany inhaled slowly, trying to calm the thoughts that buzzed through her head like a thousand flies. “Such an offer cannot be accepted lightly.”  
  
The Green Grace frowned for a single moment before bowing her head. “Of course. If I may, the Temple of the Graces is open to you and your court. Until such a time as you choose your own residence.”  
  
“Thank you,” Dany bowed her head before she turned to look at Ser Barristan. With his beard shaved the knight looked a decade younger. Ser Jorah was glaring daggers at him and Grey Worm had placed himself between the two knights. “All you come with me,” she said to her three commanders and her guards. Dany walked forward into the Temple of the Graces.  
  
The white graces led them to a chamber high above the rest of the city. From there the devastation seemed even worse. Dany could see that entire city blocks had been laid to ruin. She turned to Barristan. “I heard you killed Dhary,” she said.  
  
“I did Your Grace,” the snowy-haired knight bowed his head.  
  
“I take it you know who he is?” Dany asked Ser Jorah.  
  
“Barristan Selmy,” her bear growled in reply. “A traitor.”  
  
“If taking Robert’s pardon makes me a traitor than you are one twice over. You rose against Aerys for Robert and then broke the laws of the realm and fled your rightful punishment.”  
  
Ser Jorah bristled and made a move for his sword, but was stopped by Grey Worm. Ser Barristan hadn’t moved a muscle but it was painfully clear he was tensed for action.  
  
Ser Jorah pulled his hand away from his sword with another growl and turned to beseech Dany. “Khaleesi, he cannot be trusted. He served on Robert’s council for years he knows Stannis and Joffrey and all the other rebels they must have sent him to spy on you.”  
  
“Aye,” Ser Barristan agreed surprisingly, though his voice was choked with anger. “I served Robert for years alongside Stannis, Renly, Baelish, Pycelle, and Varys the Spider. And for years, I listened to reports from the Spider’s little birds across the Narrow Sea.”  
  
Ser Jorah went for his sword again. Ser Barristan reacted this time, drawing his sword and entering a guard before Ser Jorah’s sword was even half drawn. Grey Worm and the Unsullied raised their spears and locked their shields. Strong Belwas hefted his arakh and moved to stand beside Ser Barristan.  
  
“Stop!” Dany commanded. “All of you put down your blades.” Ser Barristan and the Unsullied obeyed immediately, Strong Belwas and Ser Jorah hesitated before obeying. “Ser Barristan, what are you implying?”  
  
“Khaleesi,” her bear spoke again. “He cannot-”  
  
“Be silent,” Dany commanded again. “Let him speak.”  
  
After a moment Ser Barristan spoke. “For many years Varys received reports from across the Narrow Sea. Whilst I sat on the small council, I heard a hundred such reports. Many of them from exiles hoping to gain royal favour and be allowed to return. Every move Viserys made was reported to the Spider. In the last year of Robert’s reign, one such exile joined your company the day you wed Khal Drogo. And every day since there has been an informer by your side selling your secrets, trading whispers to the Spider for gold and promises.”  
  
No, he cannot mean… She shook her head in denial. “No, you’re mistaken.” Dany looked at her bear. "Tell him he's mistaken,” she all but begged. “There's no informer. Ser Jorah, tell him. We crossed the Dothraki sea together, and the red waste..." Fear and betrayal fluttered like butterflies in her stomach. "Tell him, Jorah. Tell him how he got it wrong."  
  
Ser Jorah slammed his sword back into its scabbard. “Others take you, Selmy. Khaleesi, it was only at the start, before I came to know you... before I came to love-"  
  
“No!” Dany shouted, rage trembling in her body. Viserion snarled and lashed his tail. “Don’t say that word. You betrayed me, you betrayed my brother! What were you promised? Gold? Lands?” The Undying had said she would be betrayed twice more, once for gold and once for love.  
  
“Home,” Jorah said quietly.  
  
Love then, she decided, love of home.“I would have taken you home.”  
  
“Khaleesi-”  
  
“No!” She shouted again. “You will not speak to me, neither of you.” She trembled with rage. “I don’t want to see you or hear you,” go root Cleon and his rats from the pyramids. Ser Barristan bowed once and left.  
  
Jorah opened his mouth to speak.  
  
“Be silent!” _What will I do with you my bear_ , _my protector_ , _my liar_ , _and my spy_. “How can I trust you?” She asked. “You want to go home so badly. How can I trust you not to sell me like you sold those poachers?” Ser Jorah said nothing and looked at his feet. “You will leave, Jorah.” Saying so broke her heart but it would hurt even more to keep him at her side. _I cannot trust him_ , _not now and never again_. “Leave now and never return. You are exiled once more. Take your belongings, your horse, and go. Go and die in whatever way seems best to you. Make sure he leaves,” she said to the Unsullied. Four of the soldiers took him by the arms and dragged him away.  
  
Grey Worm tapped his spear on the floor. “Your Grace, what of the prisoners?” He asked.  
  
“Execute the leaders,” she said. “But spare the common soldiers.” She turned to face north, where the armies of Yunkai and Meereen were marching south. “We’ll need them.”

 

Sansa  
  
A knock on her door drew Sansa's attention away from the sea.  
  
“It’s time,” Myrielle said.  
  
“Of course,” Sansa stood to join Myrielle and Cerenna. Queen Cersei seemed determined to act as much as possible as if Casterly Rock was not under siege. Every week she invited, demanded, the huge number of Lannister cousins and goodfamily join her and feast as night fell.  
  
A pair of red cloaked guards waited outside their rooms to escort them to Queen Cersei’s dining chamber. On their trek through the tunnel like halls, they passed by a large open gallery that in more peaceful times would have provided a wondrous view of Lannisport and the Sunset Sea. But now, Lannisport was a ruin. The sea of Ironmen ships had unleashed a great tide of steel, fire, and screaming warriors upon the city. Fire and death had spread to every part of the great city. The gates had been beaten down from the inside by hordes of people fleeing the rapacious warriors of the Iron Islands. Thousands had fled the city, seeking safety within Casterly Rock, only to find that Queen Cersei had barred the gates and kept them barred even as thousands of people screamed outside them. Screamed as the Ironmen used them for target practice shooting them down by the hundred with volleys of arrows. Queen Cersei had deigned to let them waste their arrows rather than defend the hapless people of Lannisport.  
  
Days had turned into weeks and the population of Lannisport remained trapped between the besieged and the invaders. In desperation, some tried to climb the gates and enter Casterly Rock. Volleys from red cloaked crossbowmen sent most of them running and the few who did finish the climb were thrown from the heights of the Lannister mountain.  
  
The Ironmen had fortified themselves within the walls of Lannisport and from there laid waste to the West. Parties mounted on stolen horses left daily, bringing back loot and captives. Ships came and went from the harbour, always returning with the bounty of the West within their hulls.  
  
Queen Cersei’s dinner was held on an open balcony, overlooking the landward side of Casterly Rock. One of the gates of Lannisport could be seen at a distance. Several hundred Ironmen were leaving the city as she watched, they didn’t even look at Casterly Rock. For all the weeks that the siege had lasted, the Ironmen had made no effort to storm the gates of the Lion’s Mouth. It seemed that they were content to let the defenders wait inside.  
  
Sansa and her goodsisters joined Cersei and a dozen more Lannister cousins, whose names Sansa did not care to learn, or if she had to remember them. Sansa and her goodsisters were the last to arrive, except... _Where’s Tommen_? she thought. The plump prince was usually seated in a corner, playing with a kitten, or speaking politely with one of the guests. Tonight there was no sign of him. The prince had disappeared. Sansa turned her head slightly to look at the already drinking Queen Cersei. The Queen was leaning on the balustrade watching over the lands of the West. Just as the Ironmen had paid no mind the those imprisoned within Casterly Rock neither had the lords of the West. There been no signs of the western lords, not even so much as a scout.  
  
_They bled for Tywin and they bled even more for Joffrey_ , Sansa thought as she watched the Ironmen begin their raid. _It seems that they have no desire to bleed for Cersei_.  
  
“Fools,” Queen Cersei scoffed as the Ironmen raiders turned north. “After nearly a decade of summer, the stores of Casterly Rock are stuffed to bursting. We could remain under siege for years and never want for food. The only way to take Casterly Rock is by storm and it has never fallen and never will,” she drank half of her goblet of wine in a single gulp and stumbled back to her seat at the table.  
  
“Can’t we send ravens to ask the lords come to our aid?” Myrielle asked quietly.  
  
“Ask?” Cersei slurred. “The Lannisters of Casterly Rock do not ask. We command.” She lifted her goblet, drained it of wine. “In any case, there are no more ravens,” she said viciously. “They’ve all been sent and all have gone unanswered.” Suddenly, Cersei rose unsteadily to her feet, prompting everyone else to do the same. “A toast. To the lords of the Westerlands.”  
  
“To the lords of the Westerlands,” Sansa echoed along with the other guests.  
  
“May those cravens burn in the Seven Hells,” Cersei said before draining her goblet again and moving to take her seat at the table.  
  
The dinner was one of awkward silence after that.  
  
Hours later Sansa returned to her bed, her belly full and her body and mind tired by hours of Lannisters. She crawled beneath her blankets shivered, not from the cold, but from dread. Of late her dreams had been terrible things. Full of the dead and dying, twisted and dark creatures, and laughing crows. She shivered again, hugged her pillow, and let the nightmares begin.  
  
Sansa woke to the sound of the door crashing open. Myrielle and Cerenna were screaming as Sansa rushed from her bed and opened the door. The red cloaks stationed outside their chambers were dead on the ground. One’s chest had been caved in by a maul the other’s head had been all but cut free from his neck. A trio of strange men were manhandling the Lannister women, dragging them from there rooms and into the hall. One, a great tall man from the Summer Islands, saw Sansa and rushed at her. Too late, Sansa tried to slam her door closed, but the attacker caught it on his massive arm and forced it open.  
  
Sansa screamed and fell back, falling on the floor, and tears already springing from her eyes. She knew what was coming. She closed her eyes and cried, but the violation never came. She opened her eyes. The Summer Islander was standing still as if he was frozen. His eyes had rolled back into his head leaving only a pair of strange white orbs. After a moment his eyes rolled back to their proper places. Without a word the invader turned and slammed Sansa’s door shut, leaving her alone in the darkness.  
  
Sansa laid on the floor, crying and unable to sleep. She didn't dare to move for fear that whatever god had interceded on her behalf would change its mind. She waited there all night and most of the next day, ignoring hunger and thirst. When the door opened again and another man entered the room. She started to cry. He was tall and lean, with dark amber skin, and wiry dark hair. He said nothing but waved a hand, bidding her to follow him.  
  
Sansa stood on unsteady legs, her belly pained with hunger, and followed the strange man.  
  
He led her to the great hall, once the center of Lannister power, it was now the domain of the Ironmen. Hundreds crowded the benches laughing, drinking, feasting… and raping. A line of women were tied over barrels, benches, and chairs. A great crowd of warriors were waiting to take their turn. Cerenna and Myrielle were there. Sansa made herself look away. If she kept watching she’d pity them. _I don’t want to pity Lannisters_ , _I want to hate them_. She hardened her heart and kept walking through the center of the chaos. Her guide took her to the base of the high table.  
  
A pale man, with black hair, and an eye patch over his left eye was seated in the high chair of the Lannister kings. He looked a little like Theon. _Euron_ , _King Euron_. His summer sky blue eye was focused intently on her. Sansa curtsied. “Your Grace.”  
  
Euron laughed. “Come, Princess,” he waved at the high table. “Come and join us.”  
  
It was only then that Sansa noticed the figures seated beside him. Plump Prince Tommen had tears streaming down his face, his golden curls were dark with mud, and blood was splattered down his front. Euron’s hand was tight around the back of the prince’s neck. On the other side was Queen Cersei. Sansa barely recognized the golden queen without her dresses and finery. She was tied naked to a high backed chair and was drenched in wine, ale, and other fluids. Though she seemed to be otherwise unharmed.  
  
Sansa walked slowly around the table to join the king and the prince. A single empty seat remained between whimpering Prince Tommen and a huge man who seemed to not know how to smile at all. Sansa took her place with silent care. She flinched when the huge man reached to tear a leg of goose free from the rest of the carcass. A servant poured wine into Sansa’s goblet. Her hands were shaking so much half the wine ended up on the table. Without a word, the huge man reached out and pulled the woman onto his lap and began to fondle her. Sansa said nothing, and did nothing, and drank her wine. She could feel the eyes of every man on her and felt Euron’s eye worst of all. The King of the Iron Islands hadn’t looked away from her even once since she’d sat down.  
  
When at last Euron looked away it was to address his people. Euron rose and pushed plates aside and climbed upon the table. The Ironmen began to bang their cups and stamp their feet upon the floor. "EURON!" they shouted. "EURON! EURON! EURON KING!"  
  
"I swore to give you Westeros," the Iron King said when the tumult died away. "This is your first taste. A morsel, nothing more... but we shall feast before the fall of night!" The torches along the walls were burning bright, and so was he, blue lips, blue eye, and all. "What the kraken grasps it does not lose. These lands are ours now and will be so forever... but we need strong men to hold them. So rise, Andrik the Unsmiling, Lord of Casterly Rock!" The huge man next to Sansa shoved away his women and lurched to his feet, like a mountain rising sudden from the sea. "Rise, Maron Volmark, Lord of Lannisport!" A beardless boy of six and ten was raised up on shoulders by the cheering crowd. "On the morrow, we prepare once more to fight," the king was saying. “Joffrey the Boy and his host marches to save his mother,” Euron’s hand whipped out and slapped Cersei. “We will meet him, crush him, and take all the Westerlands for ourselves. The wounded who are still hale enough to raise an axe or spear will march with us. The rest shall remain here, to help hold these lands for their new lords.We’ll fight and return with a king in chains!" The Ironmen cheered and stomped their feet. “While we talk about kings, who here thinks Joffrey’s failures have cost him his right to kingship?” Euron called to the assembled Ironmen.  
  
“AYE!” The warriors roared.  
  
“And was it not good Prince Tommen who braved life and limb to show us the hidden tunnel into Casterly Rock?”  
  
“AYE!”  
  
“And do any among you think that Prince Tommen would serve as a better king of the Greenlands than Joffrey?”  
  
“AYE!”  
  
“Well then, mayhaps a kingsmoot should be held?”  
  
“AYE!”  
  
“NO!” Sansa heard Cersei screech from the far side of the king.  
  
Euron looked at her and smiled. “Bring the septon this needs to be official.” A beaten and bloody man was quickly dragged up to the high table. Euron dragged a golden arm ring from the arm of one of his warriors and pushed it into the speton’s hands. He stood and pulled the septon close. “Now repeat after me,” Euron whispered to him. “Who shall rule the Greenlands? Who shall be king over us?”  
  
“Wh- Who shall r- rule the Greenlands? Who shall be ki- king over us?” The terrified septon stuttered.  
  
Euron pushed the septon away and leaned down to whisper in Tommen’s ear. “Say you will,” Tommen shivered and flinched away from Euron. The King of the Iron Islands grabbed the prince harder. “Say it!”  
  
“I will,” Tommen cried. “I will.”  
  
“And what do you say!” Euron called to the Ironmen.  
  
“TOMMEN! TOMMEN! TOMMEN KING!” The Ironmen cheered and laughed.  
  
Euron pulled the septon back and forced the arm ring into his hands. “Crown your new king!”  
  
“I- In the name of the Seven of the Father, Mother, and, and...” The septon’s hands were shaking so hard he almost dropped the makeshift crown. “Hail King Tommen long may he reign,” he finished lamely as he placed the crown on Tommen’s head.  
  
“HAIL TOMMEN KING!” The Ironmen warriors cheered.  
  
Without a word, Euron smoothly drew his dagger and dragged it across Tommen’s throat. Hot blood spurted from the prince’s neck. Sansa felt blood splatter over her face. She flinched back falling out of her chair and trying not to be sick. “NO!” Cersei screamed. “NO!” Her screams turned to sobs.  
  
“Killing kings is easier than I expected I wonder if his brother will prove as easy?” Euron japed as he wiped the blood from his dagger. Then tossed a cloth-of-gold cloak over Tommen and turned to face the weeping Cersei. He loomed over her and said. “Gold his crown and gold his shroud,” Cersei screamed longer and louder. She screamed so loud and cried so long her voice died and she was left whimpering in the hall. As Euron’s back was turned Sansa crawled back into her chair and forced herself to drink deeper of her goblet of wine, hoping that it would steady her nerves. When she finished Euron was seated again, he looked at Sansa, over Tommen's body, his blue eye twinkled with cruelty. Sansa shivered and turned away.  
  
She dared not to look when a hand fell on her shoulder. The hand descended and took her by the arm. “Come,” was all Euron said. Sansa didn’t dare resist when he pulled her away from the great hall. Sansa followed Euron in terrified silence. He led her out of the hall and into the maze of tunnels and passages that took them up, higher and higher to the summit of Casterly Rock. Where the Stone Garden waited for them.  
  
Dark clouds roiled above them but the western sky was still clear. The air was chilly, and the sun was touching the horizon far to the west. Euron walked deep to the heart of the Stone Garden. He dragged Sansa with him. When the heart tree came into sight he pushed Sansa into a corner of two boulders. Slowly, nervously, Sansa thought, he approached the weirwood tree and then stood quietly before it for several minutes. Slowly, Euron placed his hand on the heart tree. His entire body tensed as his eye rolled back into his head, leaving only a pale white orb. His muscles spasmed randomly as he stood before the heart tree. With a jerk, his entire body froze. A minute passed before Euron moved again. His lips peeled back in a twisted smile.  
  
“Come now old man you can’t hide from me, no more than I can from you,” he jerked his head almost like he was listening to someone. “I’m mad? Hah! Which one of us is hiding in a frozen cave? Power, true power, was yours for the taking but you let some stupid boy steal it from you.”  
  
Sansa stood silently, trembling in fear, and horrified curiosity. _He’s mad,_ _truly mad_. _I should run_ , _run far and fast no matter what comes_. Despite the thoughts racing through her brain it took all her will to take so a single step away from Euron.  
  
The King of the Iron Islands raised his free hand. “Don’t,” he commanded without even looking at her. Sansa froze, unable to move even though every fibre of her being screamed at her to run. It was like some force had locked her in place.  
  
Euron turned his attention back to the tree. “You see her? She’s mine. You took the boy I’ll take his sister? Do you think that whelp can come even halfway close to measuring next to me?” Euron’s voice had risen to a fevered pitch. “He’s nothing! Less than nothing! A candle compared to the sun! But I’ll hurt him nonetheless. She’s my weapon! You see it don’t you? You little auburn bastard!”  
  
Sansa could do naught but stare at the Crow’s Eye as he cackled.  
  
“What’s this?” He asked. “You want to scare me? Scare me with frozen blue-eyed maggots hiding in rotten ice? I have seen all the horrors of this world. Bloodless cities, madness beneath the seas, darkness in the jungles, and you think to frighten me with cold dead things? Ha! A storm is coming old man. A storm to wipe away all of mankind and the only survivors will be those unafraid to rise above the shackles of their humanity.” He smiled and Sansa saw the white bark around turn black and then burst into flames. Euron laughed as the flames spread across the tree, consuming it and turning white bark into charred black bones. He laughed as the flames licked his flesh and did him no harm. His eye had turned black. Sansa fell back in terror, her heart beating a thousand miles a second, as she watched the Ironman king battle the Old Gods and win. _He's a sorcerer_ , _a monster out of one of Old Nan’s tales_. Euron was still laughing as the flames suddenly died all at once. His laughter died as well and he gazed up at the tree and tried to pull his hand free. He failed. His hand was frozen to the tree.  
  
Sansa saw something glint in the light of the setting sun. A layer of frost was spreading over the weirwood. It started where Euron’s hand met the wood and was quickly spreading and thickening from there. With a strangled scream of pain, Euron finally pulled his hand free. He left a layer of skin and blood on the blacked wood, which rapidly froze solid. In seconds the weirwood had turned white again, covered by an inches thick layer of ice that covered every branch and twig. The roaring face was transformed into a cruel and malevolent visage by the ice.  
  
Euron stumbled back holding his bloody left hand and watching the heart tree with a stunned face. A low groan began to emanate from beneath the ice. Sansa could feel it in her bones when the tree shattered. Charred wooden splinters and unmelting shards of ice were sent flying across the Stone Garden.  
  
After a moment’s pause, Euron began laughing again. Sansa pressed herself against a frost covered stone as far away from the shards and Euron as she could be. Her tears were frozen to her face.  
  
Euron’s laughter died and he turned to look at Sansa, madness, and cruelty glittered in his eye. “You’re afraid,” he said as he stalked closer to her. Sansa forced herself to her feet and fled but Euron caught her only a second later. He pulled her back, her feet slipped on shards of ice and she fell to her knees before him. “You’re afraid aren’t you? You’re afraid of that whore Cersei, of that brat Joffrey, and of me.” He smiled and chuckled. “Well, that last one is wise at least.” Euron grabbed her head with a strong hand. “I can make that fear die. I can make you be feared.” He hand was squeezing her head so tight she could move, the air was so cold it was stealing her breath away.  
  
“Yes,” she said through the pain, desperate to say anything that might make Euron stop.  
  
“Then drink,” he said, forcing a wineskin into her mouth. “Shade of the Evening will steal all your fears away.”  
  
Sansa drank. She spat out the first swallow of the queer, thick liquid. It tasted of rotten meat, ink, and everything foul. But as she swallowed that taste changed. Tendrils of warmth spread through her body like fingers of fire. The tastes changed to honey, lemons, cream, and everything nice. Everything she’d ever tasted and so much more. She drained the wineskin. Her head felt strange, her limbs tingled, she felt like she could fly away, and leave everything else behind. She dropped the wineskin and looked up into the sky. The setting sun had left the low, dark, clouds streaked with blood. A pinprick of cold and wet struck her cheeks, then her nose, and her forehead. _It’s snowing_ , she realised.  
  
Sansa stumbled, her legs didn’t want to hold her body up. As she fell Euron caught her, madness in his eye as he grabbed her head with both hands. Sansa looked up and stared into his _eyes_ , one blue but turning black and the other… Sansa trembled and felt things slither and slide inside her skull. Euron pressed both his thumbnails into her forehead. He pressed so hard they drew blood that quickly froze to her skin. “Open your eye!” He pushed her and Sansa fell…  
  
And fell…  
  
And fell...  
  
And kept falling until a gust of air and a sudden rush of instinct righted her. Black feathered wings pushed back against the chilly air. Her cousins cawed beside her and together they flew. She soared through the evening air wings beating in the sky. She followed her cousins and descended from the heights of Casterly Rock. A twist of feathers and she was flying over the ruin of Lannisport. She landed on the rocky beach, now dotted with patches of brilliant white snow. The tide had given the crows a gift. Hundreds of swollen corpses. As the snow fell she feasted before the fall of night.

 

The Soldier  
  
They’d gone north, so far north that the air had begun to grow cold again. They’d seen wonders they’d never dreamt of. Islands that winter never touched where people had skin like coal and whose clothing was made from feathers of every colour imaginable. A city on an island where every house was a brothel filled with the most beautiful women imaginable. A fortress where every tower was carved like a great scaled beast from legends of old. A city built upon a thousand islands, with canals instead of streets, and was guarded by a giant bronze statue.  
  
Captain Kubota had ordered them to sail farther north, to see yet another wonder. The locals claimed that there existed a wall of ice. A wall twice the height of the bronze statue. Captain Kubota never saw it. An ice cold wave had swept him off the deck a week north of the City of Canals. The storms had pushed them away from land and into the open ocean. Unable to control their course they had been pushed farther and farther north, into seas as cold as ice and twice as cruel. Seas that were not unlike those south of the home islands. Seas that every Beikango sailor knew to avoid at all costs.  
  
Their voyage came to an abrupt end when the storms smashed them upon a rock hidden beneath the waves. As their vessel sank its crew had fought and killed for a place on a raft made from barrels, rope, and broken timbers. A dozen men huddled together were all that remained from a crew nearly one hundred strong. Waves and wind pushed them west. A day and a night passed them by in freezing terror and left only three of the dozen survivors when at last they reached the shore.  
  
The beach was rocky and scarred by wind and water. Fifty yards from the water rose great evergreen trees, barely visible in the snow that fell without cease. Their needles covered in layers of frost and snow. Hokaro’s teeth chattered as he ran from the water and into the woods. The bare shelter did almost nothing to blunt the fury of the winter wind. _It’s not enough_ , Hokaro thought. _We’ll freeze here_.  
  
“Over here!” Rumiko shouted through his chattering teeth, waving at Hokaro and Shojo.  
  
Hokaro and Shojo followed the younger man to a tree whose branches grew so long that they brushed the ground. Together they pushed through the green needles of the trees to find that the branches had kept the space within relatively clear of snow and wind. Rumiko, a red-haired young man was barely more than a boy, was almost bouncing with joy. “A shelter,” he said excitedly. The rear of the shelter went up directly to the trunk of the tree. It’s front was open only where Rumiko had opened an inches thick plug-like door. It was covered by a steeply slanted roof made of logs and sod marred by a single small hole. The floor was of timber and was blanketed by dozens of thick furs. In the corner, beneath the hole was a small pile of dry firewood and a rock pit to house the flames. “Thank the spirits,” the boy said.  
  
“Move!” Hokaro pushed both men into the shelter and followed quickly. They quickly stripped off their frozen clothes. While Rumiko and Shojo dove into the comparatively warm pile of furs, Hokaro fumbled in the dark with his knife to shave off kindling and to strike flint against steel to light a fire. He cursed when the steel cut into his hand but in the same moment sparks flew and the first embers took light. He leaned forward and breathed slow steady breaths that spread the flames. The fire bloomed and soon a small crackling fire filled the stone hollow and warmed them. Without another thought, the three men fell asleep in a great heap.  
  
When they woke the shelter was warm and only Hokaro’s cajoling convinced the two to leave and join him outside.Together, they wrapped themselves in furs and ventured out to search the wreckage along the beach for supplies, while Rumiko did what he could to make their shelter more comfortable. They were in luck, the tides had risen and fallen in the night to leave what seemed to be half the ship on the shore. They spent an hour digging with frozen hands for supplies before fleeing back to the warmth of the shelter.  
  
Their haul was two ships axes, a spear, a load of waterlogged wood that they hoped could be dried for fires, a juki to go with the soaked powder horn Hokaro carried, and the clothes of six of their crewmates. With their new tools, they cut branches and gathered needles and twigs. With the wind howling outside their shelter Hokaro taught his crewmates how to make a feeble fire out of the cold wood. He had learned the skill in the Altan Mountains, where he had fought the Bellohanese for control of the passes. They used the fire to dry their clothes, to turn snow into water, and heat what little food they gathered from the forest and the wreckage.  
  
They stayed in the shelter for three days, scavenging the surrounding forest and the beach. Three days passed before Hokaro said. “We have to leave.”  
  
“Why?” Rumiko asked around a small mouthful of paste made from berries, bark, and a squirrel.  
  
“There’s not enough food here and the weather will only get worse.”  
  
“I thought I saw fires last night. Down in the hills southwest of us.”  
  
Hokaro sighed. “South is where we want to go anyway. Maybe these people can help us.” _Or maybe they’ll kill us_.  
  
They wrapped their blue and red cloaks of the Satsugawa Clan around them and started walking south. They dragged their supplies behind them on a makeshift sledge. The land was rough and wild, barely touched by human hands, but there were signs of life. On the second day, they came across a pit trap that some kind of huge deer had fallen prey to. That night they feasted on half cooked steaks and felt a little warmer. Though, they barely slept that night because of the cold and the distant howl of wolves.  
  
A day further south and they arrived at the source of the fires Shojo had seen in the night. It was a village huddled in the valley of two large hills. It was surrounded by a low ditch and a packed earth wall. Within was a clutch of huts made from equal parts hide, wood, and what looked like elephant bones. Despite the fires only two days ago the village seemed abandoned now. They spread out searching the little village. Rumiko entered one of the huts, Shojo swaggered through the village. Both men seemed utterly at ease. But Hokaro's guts were in knots, he gripped in juki with both hands and ground his teeth. _There’s something wrong here_. _Something very wrong_.  
  
“It’s all here,” Rumiko said as he barreled out of one house. “Food! Furs! Everything!”  
  
Shojo smiled and joined the boy in looting the village.  
  
“It’s all here...” Hokaro mused, worry and fear in the back of his mind. “Why’s it all here?” He asked more to himself than his companions.  
  
“What?” Rumiko asked, his mouth stuffed with some kind of cheese.  
  
“They left everything. All their tools, all their food, their clothes, but they’re gone and their animals are gone,” he kicked the fence of an animal pen.  
  
“A raid perhaps,” Shojo suggested. “They’re obviously savages.”  
  
“No,” Hokaro said. “There are no signs of fighting, and savages or not they would have taken nearly everything of use. It’s like they all just disappeared.”  
  
“Like something out of an old story,” Rumiko shivered. “Waveriders.”  
  
“Don’t be stupid,” Shojo spat. “Waveriders are just an old story for old women.”  
  
Hokaro said nothing but he wasn’t so sure. _This is wrong_ , _this is very wrong_.  
  
The wind rose suddenly. From a whisper to a howl, flecks of snow filled the air, stabbing like needles into their exposed skin.  
  
“Let's get inside before we freeze.”  
  
The house was well stocked with firewood, for the first time in days they were truly warm. They slept together in the bed of furs that rested next to the fire.  
  
Hokaro woke with a start. He wasn’t sure why but his heart was beating a thousand miles a minute. The wind’s died, he noted as he rose to shift the coals and add more wood to the embers. Something clattered outside, this time it woke Shojo and Rumiko as well.  
  
“What’s going on?” The boy asked.  
  
Hokaro grabbed his juki, double checked that the lock was clear, and then through his stolen fur cloak around his shoulders. “Let’s find out.” He opened the door. The air was cold, colder than Hokaro had ever imagined it could be. The sky was clear and the stars were out, a crescent moon hung low in the sky. Someone else was in the village. A man stood in the moonlight, his fur clothing was tattered and stained black with dried blood. Rumiko and Shojo joined him outside the the house each armed with an axe. The man rushed at them.  
  
Hokaro raised his juki and shot the man in the chest. The impact knocked his foe down but even as Hokaro drew his own axe to finish his foe his heart stopped. The man wasn’t dead. Instead, his foe pulled himself off the ground and started charged again. For a brief moment, the pale moonlight shone through the gaping hole in the man’s chest. Shojo and Rumiko fled but Hokaro was made of stronger steel. He was a soldier, a veteran of the Emperor’s Great War. He had fought in a hundred battles against the fanatical hordes and resolute mameluks of Bellohan. He’d never run and he would not run now.  
  
The dead man lunged at Hokaro, black hands reaching for his throat. He fell backward too shocked to truly dodge the savage attack. He stumbled over the frozen ground and turned just in time to catch the black hands on his barrel of his juki. The dead weight forced Hokaro back. His back slammed into the wall and his arms burned as Hokaro struggled to stop the dead man from slamming the barrel into his throat. They were so close that had his foe been alive Hokaro would have felt his breath. Instead, he stared into brilliant blue eyes. Gazed at skin stretched tight over what remained of flesh. Saw the bones that pushed through where skin and flesh had been worn away. Hands, black and swollen with blood and colder than winter’s heart, pushed with monstrous strength. Hokaro’s arms were trembling as he pushed against the dead man. With a single heave of all his strength, he pushed and twisted. The bronze but of the juki struck the wooden wall with a thump as all of the dead man’s strength propelled him in the wrong direction. It tripped and Hokaro followed up with a solid kick to the head. A living man would have been stunned, but a dead man was only knocked back. Nonetheless, Hokaro used took the opportunity to retreat.  
  
The cold air burned his lungs as he ran into the night. “Shojo! Rumiko!” He shouted, not caring that the monster might hear him. “Where are you!” They didn’t answer. Hokaro ran harder and faster. His legs and lungs burned, his skin was so cold it felt nothing. Eventually, exhaustion forced him to stop and hide. He took shelter inside of a hollow tree. Safe, for a moment, he reloaded his juki. Then, armed and ready he crept out of the meagre shelter.  
  
Rumiko and Shojo were waiting outside. Rumiko was missing an arm and a great mass of frozen blood spread across Shojo’s body, starting from his cut throat. Their green and brown eyes were now a frozen blue, like the deepest coldest seas. In the shadows of the trees beyond his dead crewmates, Hokaro saw another figure. It was a man with a straight sword not unlike what he’d seen men use in the south, but thinner and longer. _Too thin_ , he thought, dread rising in his soul. The edges seemed too sharp and the blade reflected light strangely. Like ice instead of steel. The cold swelled as the figure stepped from the shadows. It was tall and thin, its skin was whiter than the snow. It’s blue eyes burned like the frozen lightning. It’s armour shifted colour as it moved, reflecting the trees, snow, and shadow that surrounded them. The dead turned aside leaving the path between Hokaro and the demon open.  
  
The demon advanced slowly, mockingly, sword at its side in a low guard. Hokaro stood his ground, turning half a step to the side and raising the juki in perfect form. From three feet away Hokara fired at the demon’s chest. The lead ball shattered into ten thousand frozen shards before it ever touched the armour, disappearing like a cloud of frozen dust. A sound as sharp as icicles came from the demon’s mouth. _Laughter_ , Hokaro realised. A single swipe of the sword and his juki lay in a dozen frozen pieces of its own. For the first time in his life, Hokaro felt true terror. He was frozen in place as the crystal sword pierced his heart.


	22. Chapter 21 (Tyrion, Arya, Melisandre, Sansa)

Tyrion  
  
He was on the Wall when the Wildling outriders first arrived by the light of the moon. First had come half a hundred bone chariots and sleds, pulled by massive dogs the size of Jon Snow’s direwolf, then men on small shaggy ponies, and lastly a large mass of infantry. Grenn had been on watch as well and they watched in silence once the Aurochs had blown the horn twice.  
  
“I thought there’d be more of them,” the big man said.  
  
“That’s just their van,” Tyrion said. “Sent ahead to prepare the ground and search for enemies.”  
  
The wildlings had quickly gone to work, cutting trees and lighting fires. Within hours more of them arrived, thousands of them marching in the pale moonlight, and likely thousands more hidden by the dark of night. They came not in a single solid column, like some southern host, but in bands of a few dozen or hundred. The first to arrive took the choice spots for themselves and left their slower comrades to find their own places to make camp. It was chaos. _My father would give himself a fit if he could see this_ , Tyrion thought as he watched two bands almost came to blows over something Tyrion couldn’t see. Soon the length of the Haunted Forest was bristling with wildlings for over a mile in each direction. _And countless more waiting within the reaches of the forest_.  
  
An hour after the first wildlings had made camp, with the moon low in the sky and the first hints of dawn in the east, Donal Noye and Jon Snow came to the top of the Wall with the changing of the guard. The one-armed smith limped and held onto a cane. Almost unnoticeable beneath his black clothing, was a bandage wrapped around his upper leg. The result of an arrow sent from the dark fields south of Castle Black three nights ago. Jon’s wildling girl still lived and was making trouble for the Black Brothers of Castle Black.  
  
“How many are there?” Tyrion asked the bastard.  
  
Jon Snow leaned against the ice as he looked into the wild north. “All of them, raiders and giants, wargs and skinchangers, mountain men, salt sea sailors, ice river cannibals, cave dwellers with dyed faces, dog chariots from the Frozen Shore, Hornfoot men with their soles like boiled leather,” he shook his head. “Mance Rayder has gathered all the queer wild folk to take the Wall. Twenty thousand warriors at least, mayhaps five times that in women, elderly, and children.” A strange sound echoed in the night, almost like a horn or trumpet. “Mammoths,” Jon said before Tyrion or Donal Noye could ask.  
  
“And we’re the only thing in their way,” Tyrion said, trying to keep the despair out of his voice. "Fantastic."  
  
Donal Noye turned toward the two great trebuchets that the stewards had restored to working order. "Give me light!" He roared.  
  
Barrels of pitch were loaded hastily into the slings and set afire with torches. The wind fanned the flames to a brisk red fury. "NOW!" Noye bellowed. The counterweights plunged downward, the throwing arms rose and thudded against the padded crossbars. The burning pitch went tumbling through the darkness, casting an eerie flickering light upon the ground below. Tyrion caught a glimpse of the mammoths moving ponderously through the half-light, and just as quickly lost them again. A few dozen, maybe more. The barrels struck the earth and burst. He heard a deep bass trumpeting, and something roared like thunder in a language Tyrion didn’t recognise.  
  
"Again!" Noye shouted, and the trebuchets were loaded once more. Two more barrels of burning pitch went crackling through the gloom to come crashing down amongst the foe. This time one of them struck a dead tree, enveloping it in flame and revealing hundreds of mammoths.  
  
The Wall was too big to be stormed by any conventional means, far too high for ladders or siege towers, too thick for battering rams. No catapult could throw a stone large enough to breach it, and if you tried to set it on fire, well ice burned poorly to say the least. _Maybe if they had wildfire they could burn the Wall_ , _or dragons to smash it down_ , _but no they must take the gate_ , _or they cannot pass_. The gate itself was a crooked little tunnel that ran through the ice, smaller than any castle gate in the Seven Kingdoms, so narrow that rangers must lead their garrons through single file. Three iron grates closed the inner passage, each locked and chained and protected by a murder hole. The outer door was old oak, nine inches thick and studded with iron, not easy to break through. _But the wildlings have mammoths_ , he reminded himself, _and giants and endless numbers as well_ , _and all the lumber for rams and siege engines they could ever want_.  
  
A sound of thousand wordless shrieks, shrill cries, furious warhorns, massive war drums, and trumpeting mammoths rose into the night. Illuminated by the flames, the moon, and the predawn gloom thousands of wildlings charged the Wall. The fires revealed their great mass for the brothers high on the Wall, but the mass of Wildlings was so great that they could hardly hope to miss. Tyrion hefted his crossbow, aimed in the vague direction of a giant riding a mammoth, and sent the bolt into the night. The catapults flung their stones and crossbows and longbows peppered the wildling horde with their missiles. But it was not enough, it could never be enough, to stem the fury of the wild.  
  
"The gate!" Pyp cried out. "They're at the GATE!"  
  
"Must be cold down there," said Noye. "What say we warm them up, lads?" A dozen jars of lamp oil had been lined up on the precipice. Pyp ran down the line with a torch, setting them aflame. Grenn followed, and shoved them over the edge one by one. Tongues of pale yellow fire swirled around the jars as they plunged downward. When the last was gone, Grenn kicked loose the chocks on a barrel of pitch and sent it rumbling and rolling over the edge as well. The sounds below changed to shouts and screams. “A sweeter song has never been sung,” Tyrion laughed as the wildlings burned and dropped their simple ram and stone axes.  
  
Donal Noye turned and looked around the ring of firelit faces atop the Wall. "I need two bows and two spears to hold the tunnel if they break the gate." More than ten stepped forward, and the smith picked his four. "Jon, you have the Wall till I return."  
  
“My lord?” The bastard looked terrified and confused.  
  
“Do I look like a lord?” The smith asked back. “You have the Wall.”  
  
"Aye," Jon managed at last as Donal Noye stalked back to the lift.  
  
“Relax,” Tyrion said. “What’s the worst that could happen, all the hard work’s happening down there.” Jon did not look much relieved.  
  
They stood side by side with the straw soldiers. Their longbows or crossbows clutched in half-frozen hands. Together the archers launched a hundred flights of arrows against men they never saw. From time to time a wildling arrow came flying back in answer. Men were sent to the smaller catapults and filled the air with jagged rocks the size of a man's head, but the darkness swallowed them as a man might swallow a handful of nuts. Mammoths trumpeted in the gloom, strange voices called out in strange tongues. They heard a mammoth dying at their feet and saw another lurch burning through the woods, trampling down men and trees alike. The wind blew cold and colder. Zei the Whore took a place among them with her crossbow. Hours of repeated jars and shocks knocked something loose on the right-hand trebuchet, and its counterweight came crashing free, suddenly and catastrophically, wrenching the throwing arm sideways with a splintering crash. The left-hand trebuchet kept throwing, but the wildlings had quickly learned to shun the place where its loads were landing.  
  
“We should have twenty trebuchets, not two,” Jon said to him. “And they should be mounted on sledges and turntables so we could move them.”  
  
“You might as well wish for another thousand men,” Tyrion said. “Maybe a dozen of Stannis’ dragons, and a few of the Targaryen dragons of old as well, just for good measure. We’re just as likely to get those as more trebuchets.”  
  
Hours passed them by and Donal Noye did not return, nor any of those who'd gone down with him to hold that black cold tunnel. Tyrion fell to the ground in exhaustion, his crossbow by his side. Cramps seized his legs and sent white-hot and razor-sharp bolts of pain through them. His fingers felt crabbed and stiff, half-frozen, and raw where the crossbow’s cord had dug into them. Despite it all, he kept loading and shooting, not even bothering to look over the Wall as his shot. Whenever his quiver was empty, one of the orphaned moles would bring him another. _No more_ , he thought a hundred times, _no more I’m done_.  
  
When morning came, none of them quite realized it at first. The world was still dark, but the black had turned to grey and shapes were beginning to emerge half-seen from the gloom. Tyrion sank to his knees, more exhausted than he’d ever been before in his life, all he wanted was to sleep. A dozen feet away Jon notched another arrow.  
  
Tyrion turned around the crenellation to see the battleground speared by lances of pale morning light. Jon found himself holding his breath as he looked out over the half-mile swath of cleared land that lay between the Wall and the edge of the forest. In half a night they had turned it into a wasteland of blackened grass, bubbling pitch, shattered stone, and corpses. The carcass of the burned mammoth was already drawing crows. There were giants dead on the ground as well but behind them. “Seven Hells,” Tyrion muttered. The numbers of dead Wildlings were dwarfed a dozen times over by the horde that waited in the Haunted Forest.  
  
Mammoths and giants centered the wildling line. A hundred or more of the huge beasts had giants on their backs. The giants had no swords or spears instead they clutched mauls, stone axes, and tree trunks in their hands. More giants loped beside them, pushing along a tree trunk on great wooden wheels, its end sharpened to a point. A ram, he thought bleakly. If the gate still stood below, a swift fucking from that thing would soon turn it into splinters. On either side of the giants came a wave of horsemen in boiled leather harness with fire-hardened lances, a huge mass of running archers, hundreds of foot with spears, slings, clubs, and leather shields. The bone chariots clattered forward on the flanks, bouncing over rocks and roots behind teams of huge white dogs. Skins skirled, horns blew, dogs barked, mammoths trumpeted, wildlings screamed, giants roared in a strange language, and huge drums beat the call to battle. The noise echoed off the wall like thunder.  
  
"The Wall will stop them," Tyrion heard Jon say. He turned to look at the bastard who stood tall, a longbow and notched arrow in his hands. "The Wall will stop them,” he said more loudly. The Wall defends itself. Mance wants to unman us with his numbers. Does he think we're stupid? The chariots, the horsemen, all those fools on foot... what are they going to do to us up here? Any of you ever see a mammoth climb a wall?" He laughed, and Pyp and Grenn and half a dozen more laughed with him, Tyrion couldn’t help himself as he chuckled slightly. "They're nothing, they're less useful than our straw brothers here, they can't reach us, they can't hurt us, and they don't frighten us, do they?"  
  
“NO!” Someone shouted.  
  
"They're down there and we're up here," Jon said, "and so long as we hold the gate they cannot pass. They cannot pass!" They were all shouting then, roaring his own words back at Jon, waving swords and longbows in the air as their cheeks flushed red with cold, exhaustion, and anger. "Brother," Jon pointed at Kegs, who had a warhorn slung beneath his arm. "Sound the call for battle."  
  
Kegs grinned, lifted the horn to his lips, and blew the two long blasts that meant wildlings. Other horns took up the call until the Wall itself seemed to shudder, and the echo of those great deep-throated moans drowned all other sounds.  
  
"Archers," Jon said when the horns had died away. "You'll aim for the giants with that ram, every bloody one of you. Loose at my command, not before. THE GIANTS AND THE RAM! I want arrows raining on them with every step, but we'll wait till they're in range. Any man who wastes an arrow will need to climb down and fetch it back, do you hear me?"  
  
"I do," shouted Grenn. "I hear you, Lord Snow,” others joined in the shouting and rushed to help lay down a rain of arrows upon the giants.  
  
Tyrion meanwhile stepped back beside the panting Jon and said. “A pretty speech. Do you believe it?”  
  
“I have too,” the bastard replied.  
  
“Good answer,” Tyrion stepped forward again and began to load his crossbow, there were Wildlings to kill. The morning assault seemed to last forever but perhaps it was only an hour at most. Even so it had been more successful than the night attack. Despite arrows, burning oil, and falling rocks the giants managed to smash the gate, and enter the tunnel. Though none atop the Wall knew what had happened next. They must have been killed, Tyrion thought, else Castle Black would be aflame with Wildling hate by now.  
  
Not long after the Wildlings retreated the pretty, young, steward named Satin came to the top of the Wall not long after the Wildlings retreated. “Jon,” he said. “Donal Noye says you’re too come down and rest your leg.” he turned to face Tyrion. “Donal Noye and Maester Cressen would like a word,” the pretty young man said.  
  
“A word? What word? I do hope it’s important,” that won a small round of laughter from the black brothers.  
  
“I mean they’d like to speak to you.”  
  
“I suppose that’s agreeable,” Tyrion said as he limped to the lift.  
  
The lift came to a sudden stop at the base of the Wall. After the battle with the Thenns, it had taken them almost a day to clear the ice and broken beams away from the inner gate. Spotted Pate and Kegs and some of the other builders had argued heatedly that they should just leave the debris there, another obstacle for the Wildlings. But that would have meant abandoning the defence of the tunnel, and Noye would have none of it. With men in the murder holes and archers and spears behind each inner grate, Noye claimed a few determined brothers could hold off a hundred times as many wildlings and clog the way with corpses. Donal Noye did not mean to give the enemy free passage through the ice. So with picks, spades, and ropes, they had moved the broken steps aside and unblocked the gate.  
  
Now the gate was blocked again, this time with the great white furred bulk of a dead giant. As he watched a dozen black brothers pulled the corpse away with ropes and hooks. _A giant_ , _a single giant_ , _and there are hundreds more beyond the Wall_. A limping Donal Noye slapped Jon on the shoulder. “Get some rest,” he ordered and then he limped toward Tyrion.  
  
“Don’t tell me you killed that thing,” Tyrion said as he approached the smith.  
  
“Gods no. Only one arm and one good leg, I’d have done more harm than good. Half a hundred arrows and bolts took the beast down, and a six spears in the gut killed the other,” Donal Noye now pointed to the second beast being dragged out of the tunnel now that the first had been cleared. “But not before they ripped through every gate and killed over a dozen brothers.”  
  
“Lancel?”  
  
“A broken wrist, and bruises over his whole body. Fine other than that. Come on, we need to talk,” the smith led Tyrion to the rookery.  
  
“I’m not sure why I’m here,” Tyrion said as he entered Maester Aemon’s warm chamber.  
  
“Because you’re highborn,” Donal Noye said as he limped to a chair by the hearth. “Because you know how the kings and lords think, and because you’re one of the few people here we can fucking trust.”  
  
Tyrion quirked an eyebrow as he settled into a chair and gasped in relief. “Jon Snow doesn’t make that list?”  
  
“He tried to desert bare weeks after swearing his vows,” the one-armed smith grumbled. “When he heard his brother was marching to war. If he knew Robb Stark had returned to the North and was even now fighting a war in the North?” Noye spat into the flames. “The boy’s a natural leader and a skilled swordsman and we have need of both, I trust him to lead and command our brothers until the cold breath of the Others freezes us to death, but not to talk about his brother.”  
  
It was the first Tyrion had heard of Robb Stark in a very long time. “At war, you say,” Tyrion said as he pulled himself into a chair of his own. “With whom? The last I heard of him I was still in King's Landing. His army in the Riverlands fighting my father. Robb had the cavalry and the Riverlords, and Roose Bolton had the foot in Harrenhal.”  
  
“Robb Stark is at war with Lord Bolton,” Maester Aemon said. “News comes slowly to the Wall but when it does come it does all at once. For months and weeks we knew nothing, but now we know that Robb Stark lost a battle, an arm, and most of an army to Lord Tywin. After that things fell apart, Lord Edmure led many of the Riverlords to Stannis, and Lord Roose did the same for the greater part of the northern host.”  
  
“Where is the Young Wolf now?”  
  
“White Harbour,” Aemon answered. “Besieged by Lords Roose Bolton and Harrion Karstark. The former of which has been named Warden of the North by King Stannis.”  
  
“And how do the lords of the North feel about that?”  
  
The ancient maester took a sip from his wooden cup. “The Karstarks, Ryswells, and Dustins have turned their cloaks to the flayed man and the stag. The Manderlys, Glovers, and Cerwyns have stayed loyal to Robb Stark, and the rest seem content to wait for a winner to be determined.”  
  
“Even the Umbers?”  
  
Donal Noye spat into the fire. “Greatjon and Smalljon are both dead, and his other sons are captured somewhere or dead as well. Crowfood and Whoresbane are either dividing the lands of Last Hearth between themselves, fighting over it, or feasting every night depending on what rumour you believe.” Donal Noye spat into the fire again. “We must’ve sent a dozen ravens to Last Hearth and still no word.”  
  
Tyrion put his elbows on his knees and stared into the flames. In his head, he turned over pages and pages from hundreds of books trying to remember all he could about the North. _Mountain clans saved me once_ , _maybe they’ll do so again_. “What of the Mountain Clans? They hate the wildlings do they not?”  
  
Noye growled. “Ser Denys Mallister had the same thought. He sent half a dozen rangers into the mountains and they all brought the same news back. All they found was a bunch of empty villages. The clans have already marched.”  
  
Tyrion smiled. “Well, that’s good news.”  
  
“Marched south,” Donal Noye spat again. “Marched to join Robb Stark in his war against Roose Bolton and Stannis Baratheon. The Night’s Watch will get no aid from the clans.”  
  
“That’s less good,” Tyrion said glumly.  
  
“We sent letters to each of the five kings and more to the great lords, care to shed any light on their reaction?”  
  
“Sending anything to Joffrey or Balon was a waste of ink. Renly was probably dead before the letters were even written. Robb, I’d have thought that of all the kings he’d have been the most likely to do something,” Tyrion shrugged. “Either he never got the letter or he’s a less dutiful Northman that I pegged him for.” _Or perhaps the northmen decided to ignore the commands of a beaten cripple_.  
  
“And Stannis?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Tyrion said glumly. “He might send aid, he might do nothing.”  
  
“We can’t rely on mights,” Donal Noye rubbed his injured leg.  
  
“We must assume that we’re on our own and plan accordingly,” Maester Aemon said.  
  
“The time for planning is over,” said Donal Noye. “Now we fight.”  
  
Tyrion bit his tongue. _No_ , _now we die_.

 

Arya  
  
Ser Rolland Storm shadowed Arya and Shireen, his white cloak wrapped around his shoulders and white armour beneath it. A dozen Baratheon soldiers in mail and black cloaks rode around them as well. Arya and Princess Shireen rode almost knee to knee on a pair of mares. Arya wore a blue and red riding skirt with silver embroidery around the hem. It was in the Riverlands style or so Queen Selyse's maids had told her. Shireen wore a more conservative dress, in the Reacher style. It was striped with silver and gold, and black does ran up and around in circles, from the hem to her chest. Because it had no splits Shireen had to ride side saddle. From Aegon’s High Hill they rode down the wide street to the valley between Visenya’s Hill and Rhaenys’ Hill. The ocean wind picked up for a minute, bringing the smell of Flea Bottom with it.  
  
Shireen wrinkled her nose. “It’s so smelly here and everything’s always dirty.”  
  
Arya sniffed for a second and looked around to take in the streets of King’s Landing. There were no gold cloaks, instead, there were patrolling soldiers in gold surcoats with a red tower on them, the new city watch. Arya had heard during Shireen's dinners that Lord Alester had disbanded the gold cloaks at the King’s command. Many of the rank and file were the same, only the worst had been thrown out, but the officers were now King Stannis’ and Lord Alester’s, and Lord Yohn Royce’s too, now that the Master of Laws had taken up his duties. Besides the men patrolling them the streets themselves were different. They were cleaner than Arya had ever seen them, even the stench wasn’t as bad. “It used to be worse,” she said to Shireen. “People would pile everything up on the streets.”  
  
“Everything?” Shireen asked dubiously.  
  
“Everything,” Arya said, trying not to giggle at Shireen's wrinkled nose.  
  
Shireen shook her head. “Why? King Jaehaerys built sewers, Maester Cressen taught me that.”  
  
“I think I saw them,” Arya said, thinking of her time in the tunnels beneath the Red Keep, and in Flea Bottom. “Or their ruins at least.”  
  
“My Princess, my lady,” Ser Rolland had ridden up behind them. “The sewers fell into disrepair during King Aerys and King Robert’s reigns. Along with the laws that proscribed the dumping of filth and sewage.”  
  
Shireen pursed her lips, though only part of her cheek moved. “My father will make King’s Landing beautiful again.”  
  
“He can’t make it worse,” Arya muttered.  
  
Shireen giggled.  
  
Shireen pulled gently on her mare’s reins when they reached the huge square that marked the center of King’s Landing. “Whoa,” she patted her horse's neck to comfort the mare. Arya stopped more smoothly and turned to look the same way Shireen was, up Rhaenys’ hill, toward the Dragonpit. Shireen turned to Ser Rolland. “Can we see it?”  
  
The knight of the kingsguard nodded. “Of course my princess.”  
  
_What the princess wants the princess gets_ , Arya thought as they turned onto the Street of the Sister and moved up Rhaenys’ Hill. The higher they climbed the larger and grander the houses became until, eventually, they became manses. The homes of merchants and highborn. Above them, growing ever larger, was the collapsed dome of the Dragonpit. As they rode higher they passed huge ox-drawn wagons carrying rubble and massive pieces of stone out of the Dragonpit. All the drivers and workers bowed their heads as Arya and Shireen passed them. Before long, they were in the shadow of the crumbling stone walls of the Dragonpit. Arya bent her head back and saw the tips of tall wooden cranes peeking over the walls.  
  
There were more soldiers at the Dragonpit, Florents, Baratheons, and the dragonmen with their new weapons. They bowed their heads or raised weapons in salute as their princess rode past them. They passed beneath the massive gate and entered the Dragonpit. Hundreds of men were at work inside, breaking down the rubble with picks and shovels, cranes lifted either large chunks of stone or huge nets full of rubble and loaded the wagons that hauled the rubble out of the Dragonpit. From within the massive structure, Arya was reminded of Harrenhal.  
  
“What are they doing?” Arya asked.  
  
“My father wants the Dragonpit to house the dragons and the dragonmen. He says it’s been a ruin long enough. I wanted to see it.”  
  
_And what the princess wants the princess gets_. Arya followed Shireen as she slowly wandered the worksite, asking a hundred questions.  
  
Meanwhile, Arya turned her head this and that, only half listening to Shireen and the workmen, more interested in watching the workers. Especially the few that had taken off their shirts in the heat. “That’s a dragon bone!” Arya said as a crane lifted a chunk of stone free from the pile of rubble. Without a thought, Arya dismounted picked up her stupid skirts and clambered over the rocks and rubble.  
  
“Lady Arya!” Ser Rolland called for her, but Arya ignored her. Work around her stopped as the labourers paused to stare at her. She waited for a second for the boulder being lifted up by the crane to get out of the way, and then dove into the rubble. She pushed loose rocks away and pulled the bone free. It was a claw, almost the size of Arya’s hand, black and hard like the iron from Mikken’s smithy.  
  
“Arya!” Shireen called. “What did you find?”  
  
“A dragon claw!” Arya shouted back as she clambered her way over the rubble. “I found a dragon claw!” Around her, the workers dropped their tools and rushed over to see the claw for themselves. Among them a big-bellied foreman, whose huge face was drowning in sweat. Two of the Baratheon soldiers, warded off the crowd of workers as Arya climbed over the last rocks. “See,” she lifted the claw for Shireen to see. “I wonder which dragon’s claw this was?”  
  
Shireen pulled away from the dragon claw. “I don’t know,” she said quickly.  
  
Arya’s brow furrowed slightly. _Is she scared_?  
  
“My Princess, my lady,” the foreman wheezed as a soldier turned to let him pass. “Congratulations on your find,” he said over the muttering rising from the crowd.  
  
“Why do they seem unhappy?” Shireen asked the foreman.  
  
“My princess? Oh, they’re promised a reward for everything they find, bones, weapons, and dragonbone most of all. With your own find, there’s just one less for them that’s all,” the big man bit his fat lip  
  
Shireen frowned and said. “Give each man a, uh-” She looked to Arya.  
  
Arya slipped the claw into a pouch on her saddle and mounted her mare. “A silver stag for every man who worked today!”  
  
The workers raised a cheer, and one lanky man called out. “The Good Lady Arya! The Good Princess Shireen!”  
  
“Seven blessings on you both!” Some called.  
  
“Red blessings!” Shouted a man with a red scarf.  
  
_Joffrey wouldn’t have done this_ , Arya thought as she waved and watched Shireen wave and smile as well. What the princess wants, the princess gets, Arya thought without bitterness as guards began to hand out silver stags to the workmen.  
  
Others picked up the cheers and for a few moments Arya was back in Winterfell with her father as they road through Wintertown, smothered by the adoration of the smallfolk. Arya smiled and started waving to them. Still smiling, she turned to see that Shireen was shocked into stillness, but after a moment she smiled and waved to the crowd of workers. As one the two girls turned their horses and began to ride back through the Dragonpit.  
  
From the Dragonpit they road north, toward and along, the Street of Silk. Arya craned her head at the closed doors and shuttered windows. King Stannis had ordered the brothels closed and their occupants evicted, the richer whores had left King’s Landing for other cities, the poorer had moved to other parts of the city. Arya shook she felt little pity for their troubles. In the days after she’d fled the Red Keep Arya had feared to go to the Street of Silk. There had been too many whispers that girls who went there rarely left.  
  
The Street of Silk turned down Rhaenys’ Hill and gradually changed into the streets of guildhouses, merchants, and minor nobles until at last they left King’s Landing, passing beneath the portcullis of the Old Gate. Baratheon men stood guard at the gates, taking a careful search of the wagons lined up outside the city.  
  
The wind was blowing from the land, so it swept the stench of King’s Landing away as the two girls rode on through the open fields that surrounded the capital. For the first time in many months, Arya felt free. The wind was in her hair, her mare between her legs, freedom. For a time at least. Here she could forget her father, forget her mother, forget her brothers, forget her sister.  
  
Arya raced ahead of Shireen, quickly outpacing the princess and her guards. Arya flung her head back and laughed. From not far behind she heard her laughter echoed as Shireen rushed after her. Arya turned her head and saw Shireen racing behind her, she gripped the reins like a drowning sailor grabs a wooden spar. But her face was parted in a broad smile that in some way only made her greyscale marred face look even worse. Nonetheless, Arya smiled in return. Together they rode west and north, mostly following the bank of the Blackwater, but veering off to explore the fields and copses whenever the fancy took them.  
  
Near an hour into the ride, Arya heard Shireen scream, not far behind her, quickly followed by Ser Rolland shouting. “Princess!”  
  
Arya turned her mare around and trotted to where Shireen was lying on the ground. Her mare had walked off an was nibbling grass nearby. Shireen sat up slowly, nursing her left arm.  
  
“What happened?” Arya asked.  
  
Shireen winced, tears budding at the corners of her eyes. “My saddle,” she said slowly, nodding to the pile of leather that laid on the ground beside her.  
  
One of the guards quickly moved to investigate it. Arya dismounted and crossed the ground to Shireen to help her stand  
  
“Ser Rolland,” the guard said as he dragged Shireen’s saddle from the ground. “The girth broke.”  
  
“An accident?” The kingsguard knight asked.  
  
The guard shook his head. “No ser, it was cut. See here where the break was, the strap was cut part of the way through right under the seat where it’s hard to spot. Weakened so it would break while riding, this was no accident.”  
  
Arya felt her heart start to beat faster. _Someone tried to kill Shireen_. _Why_? She wondered.  
  
Ser Rolland’s frown deepened. “We should get back to the Red Keep, none of you will speak of this to anyone save for King Stannis, Lord Alester, or Lady Melisandre.”  
  
“Yes ser,” the Baratheon men said as one.  
  
Ser Rolland turned to face Arya and Shireen. “My Princess, if you’d please I can take you back to the Red Keep on my horse.”  
  
“She can ride with me,” Arya said.  
  
Ser Rolland jerked his head in surprise then turned back to Shireen. “If that is your wish?” He asked the princess.  
  
“Yes,” Shireen smiled through her tears. “I’d like that.”  
  
Ser Rolland and a soldier helped Shireen mount Arya’s horse. A second later Arya mounted behind the shorter girl. Ser Rolland tied Shireen's mare to his bridle and followed behind them as they made haste back to King’s Landing. They followed the Blackwater Rush to the city, stopping whenever Shireen’s pain grew too great to continue, which was often. A ride that had taken them only an hour one way took double that on the return.  
  
When they crested the final hill before King’s Landing it was almost nightfall. By the light of the setting sun, Arya could see a column of soldiers entering the city by way of the Gate of the Gods. They seemed to be a few thousand strong and were led by a party of heralds bearing banners. A pink woman, a silver eagle, a red fish, and many more. Of them all, Arya only recognised two, first, the grey towers of House Frey and the second, leading the column, was the silver trout of House Tully. _My uncle_ , Arya thought, she had never met Edmure, but her heart sang for a moment. To know that family was so close.  
  
“Arya?” Shireen asked as she tried to rub dirt off her face, but only succeeding in spreading it onto her hand and sleeve. “What is it?”  
  
“My uncle Edmure is here.”  
  
Shireen pulled up beside her. “The Lord of Riverrun,” she said. “My father says he is a loyal man. Have you ever met him?”  
  
Arya shook her head. “No, I never left the North before I came to King’s Landing.”  
  
“I expect you’ll meet him tonight,” Shireen said.  
  
They entered King’s Landing by the King’s Gate and rode along River Row to the Red Keep where they used a side entrance instead of the main gate. Once inside Shireen was bundled away by Ser Rolland with barely a chance for the Princess to say good night. Alone, save for a single guard, Arya returned to her chambers.  
  
A bare hour passed before a guard opened the door to her room. “Lady Arya, your uncle is here to see you,” he didn't ask before he opened the door to let Edmure enter. Her uncle was much taller than Arya, though not so tall as other men. He had blue eyes and auburn hair like Arya’s mother and all her siblings except for Jon, and his beard was red like the fires Lady Melisandre burned each night.  
  
“It’s good to see you at last," he said. "May I sit?” Arya nodded and Edmure took a chair beside her. “Your mother wrote to me when you were born, she was so happy to give Lord Eddard a child who looked like him. A child who had the Stark look.”  
  
“What about Jon?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh yes,” Edmure shook his head. “Your father’s bastard.”  
  
“My brother."  
  
Edmure said nothing for a second and then changed the subject. “They said Lord Bolton found you at Harrenhal, were you treated well?”  
  
“He didn’t find me, he betrayed Robb and when I tried to help my brother Bolton imprisoned me, then he sent me here to be a prisoner. Just like Sansa was for the Lannisters.”  
  
“You’re not a prisoner,” Edmure said quickly. “Not here, not to Stannis. He isn't the kind of King who holds a girl responsible for her brother’s crimes.”  
  
“What crimes?” Arya asked though she suspected she already knew.  
  
“Rebellion,” Edmure said. “Treason.”  
  
“Against Stannis.”  
  
“Why are you here?” She asked. “At Harrenhal they said you fought for Robb! You’re a traitor! My father wouldn't!” She went quiet unsure of what she would say.  
  
Edmure didn’t flinch at the accusation, instead, he reached for Arya’s hand. She pulled her hand away, trying not to cry, and failing. After a moment her uncle reached out again and took her hand. “Maybe your father wouldn’t have done what I did. He was a better man than me. A better man than most. Maybe a better man than this world deserved. All I can say is that my people were hurting and afraid so I did my duty and protected them in the way I knew best.”  
  
Arya looked away from him, anger and shame in her chest. “My father lied,” she said. “He lied to save me and Sansa. He said Joffrey was the true king, that he’d tried to steal the throne for himself.”  
  
“I’d heard that,” Edmure said. “A raven sent from King’s Landing brought word. I thought it was Lannister lies.”  
  
What she said next brought more tears to her eyes. “I think my father would have bent the knee to Stannis. To protect those he loved.”  
  
Edmure pulled Arya into a hug.  
  
“Is Robb going to die?”  
  
“I don’t know.”

 

Melisandre  
  
She walked the halls of the Red Keep, her glowing ruby sent pale shadows flickering along the walls, and men and women alike moved aside when she walked past them. Even those with the ridiculous seven-pointed star badges on their surcoats stepped aside when she came. Two of her most loyal converts followed her, carrying an unlit brazier. In such troubled times, R’hllor’s visions were more important than ever and she could not bear to be apart from the fires. She ignored one knight who spat on the ground as she walked past but made note of his white and green chequy surcoat. While many of the less fanatical heathens had been mollified by Lord Alester’s plan for a new knightly order, a few still persisted in their useless fanaticism. _Can they not see the futility of their resistance or the danger it poses_? _The kingdom of Azor Ahai Reborn must be ready for the struggle_. _It must be united_ , _and those heathens that cling to the old ways will be compelled by Azor Ahai’s power to kneel before R’hllor_.  
  
Two dragonmen waited outside the Small Council chamber and they opened the door as Melisandre approached. She was the last to arrive, the rest of the table was already crowded by the lords of the Small Council. Maester Cressen, the old man who still held Stannis’ ear, but still foolishly hated and distrusted her. Lord Ardrian Celtigar, Stannis’ Master of Coin was more of a puppet for the skilled men supposedly under his command. _All for the best_ , _he became rich by hoarding his wealth_ , _not by wise management_. Lord Yohn Royce, the newly appointed Master of Laws, who was already making his name feared among the criminals of King’s Landing. Lord Alester Florent, proud, vain, and disturbingly influential with Stannis. Justin Massey, a devout man, but still unaccustomed to his new position as Lord Commander of Dragons.  
  
Without a word, Melisandre took her seat between the king and Justin Massey, opposite to Maester Cressen and Lord Alester. Her followers placed the brazier on the ground behind her and then left immediately. Stannis wasted no time, he raised a hand and two of the dragonmen standing guard opened a side door and escorted Edmure Tully into the Small Council chamber. The Lord of Riverrun bowed respectfully and then waited for Stannis to speak. The king himself also waited a moment before speaking. “Lord Edmure, I welcome you to the Red Keep,” he said at last.  
  
Lord Edmure bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Grace, it is an honour.”  
  
Alester Florent spoke next with honeyed tones to flatter the visiting lord. “Your service and loyalty are greatly appreciated by His Grace, and indeed by all the court. House Tully and the Riverlands are truly blessed to have a lord as wise and courageous as yourself. “You have done the realm a great service in taking Raventree Hall in His Grace’s name,” he paused a moment. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Battle at Bitterbridge?”  
  
“Yes my lord, I’ve heard His Grace won a great victory over Joffrey the False.”  
  
“Great indeed, a victory to shake the foundations of Casterly Rock and the West with it," Lord Alester smiled. "Lady Alysanne Lefford has offered His Grace her fealty following the defeat of Joffrey.”  
  
Lord Alester pointedly left out what Melisandre had seen in her fires a week earlier. The ashes had made a storm of crows that savaged a lioness and had taken her cave for their own. The vision's meaning had been obvious even at the time and only confirmed when Lady Alysanne had begged protection from the reavers that now ravaged the West. If Lord Edmure was aware of these events, he gave no sign.  
  
Stannis spoke again. “I have written to Lady Alysanne, she will be welcomed back into the realm on but one condition, that being House Lefford will now swear fealty to Riverrun, not Casterly Rock. She has accepted,” he ended simply, looking at the Lord of Riverrun with his stormy blue eyes.  
  
Edmure stood in stunned stillness for a moment before falling to his knee. “Your Grace is too generous.”  
  
“It is not generosity when the reward is well deserved. You are dismissed, my lord.”  
  
“Thank you, Your Grace.” The Lord of Riverrun bowed again and turned to leave.  
  
When Lord Edmure was gone Stannis turned his attention to his Master of Coin. “Lord Ardrian, what of the Iron Bank?”  
  
“I had Davon Mast negotiate with the banker as per Your Grace’s instruction," Lord Ardrian said quickly. "Master Mast returned last evening with a contract he deemed acceptable,” the Lord of Claw Isle slid a piece of parchment across the table to Lord Alester and King Stannis. Davon Mast was a merchant of some note in King’s Landing. He had been one of the Antler Men, the brave souls that had taken Lion Gate in Stannis’ name during the Battle of King’s Landing. He and many others had been rewarded with a royal appointment to the treasury. Davon Mast, in particular, had proven skilled at his new position, and more importantly in this matter, he'd had dealings with the Iron Bank before. Stannis picked up the parchment and began to read.  
  
The other lords of the Small Council tried their best not to look nervous or curious as Stannis read, but Melisandre simply turned her eyes to the brazier. She saw crows flying above a host of beasts that were crawling and clawing over each other in their fury to reach the crows. _The same crows she'd seen attack the lioness_? _No_ , she decided. Their feathers were ragged and their eyes lack the same malice. She didn’t look long, Stannis read quickly, but as she turned away she saw the flash of a black eye that sent a shiver down her spine. Disturbed, Melisandre returned her focus to Stannis and more mundane matters. Mundane they may be, but Azor Ahai Reborn must have a strong realm if he is to resist the darkness and the Great Other.  
  
“The final agreement,” Stannis said when he finished reading. “Is that a one time good faith payment of fifty thousand gold dragons will be paid immediately. After that, payments will resume one year after the fall of Casterly Rock to forces loyal to myself. The regularity and size of payments will be negotiated then.”  
  
Lord Yohn Royce huffed. “One would think, given their reputation, that the Iron Bank would try to squeeze everything that they could out of this agreement.”  
  
“Why fight when you can negotiate?” Lord Alester asked. “The King on the Iron Throne is not some Essosi merchant prince to be crushed at will by these bankers. Far better to be His Grace’s friend rather than his enemy. Help His Grace in his victory then reap the rewards of Westeros united.” He turned to Lord Ardrian. “Can the treasury afford such a payment?”  
  
“Yes my lord, Lord Edmure has delivered the greater part of two years worth of taxes from the Riverlands and the enemy camp at Bitterbridge brought vast amounts of gold, coin, and other valuables stored there. We can well afford to pay the Braavosi.”  
  
"The Lannisters always pay their debts," Justin Massey japed.  
  
Stannis cut off any further discussion by signing the contract and handing it back to Lord Ardrian Celtigar. “Deliver it to the Braavosi and arrange the first payment.”  
  
“Yes Your Grace,” the Lord of Claw Isle bobbed his head in a bow.  
  
“Lord Yohn,” Stannis turned his attention to his Master of Laws. “How has the command of King’s Landing progressed?”  
  
“The gold cloaks have been reorganized into new companies, better to break up the old networks of corruption. Knights of House Royce, Florent, and Baratheon have been appointed as officers. Ser Omer Blackberry is now Lord Commander of the City Guard.”  
  
“How is the city adjusting to the changes?”  
  
Lord Yohn answered. “I can’t say for sure, Lord Renly and Janos Slynt kept abysmal records of crime and punishment. However, there seems to be less crime, though that could just as easily be because all the young men are too busy working on the walls and the dragonpit to commit crimes.”  
  
Stannis grunted. “Work is proceeding apace then?”  
  
“Yes Your Grace, the walls have been almost completely repaired and the new tower is being built as we speak to the specifications of Lady Sato and her engineers.”  
  
“R’hllor willing the tower should be complete within two moons Your Grace,” Justin Massey spoke. “And we will have the dragons ready by then.”  
  
Stannis nodded.  
  
“There is the matter of Joffrey the False, Your Grace. He yet commands a host of some size,” said Lord Alester.  
  
“The false king continues his flight west, losing men like a stuck pig loses blood,” Melisandre said in answer. The fires had shown her a pig with the mane of a lion bleeding from a dozen wounds, the drops of blood became men when they struck the ground, and malevolent crows circled overhead. “I think the Ironmen will deal with what remains of his host.”  
  
The Hand of the King nodded. “Most of his remaining sellswords have deserted. One company led by a,” Lord Alester checked a note, “Ser Bronn Wolfsbane has gone so far as to join Ser Mark Mullendore’s host of four thousand horse and has been of great aid harassing the rebels.”  
  
“And what does this sellsword want for his turned cloak?” Lord Yohn Royce asked suspiciously.  
  
“Confirmation of his ownership of Oaklake Keep,” Lord Alester said. “Ser Bronn claims it was a gift from Lord Mathis Rowan.”  
  
“Lord Mathis is a noble and gallant lord," Lord Ardrian said. "He would not have made such a gift without good reason.”  
  
“Mathis Rowan is an attainted rebel,” Yohn Royce said gruffly. “Whatever he gave or offered this sellsword means nothing.”  
  
“I have seen him in the flames,” Melisandre spoke for the first time. “There is a shadow about him and his actions, but I believe he can be trusted to fight well. So long as he’s on the winning side,” she said with a hint of scorn in her voice.  
  
Lord Yohn Royce snorted once, the pious valelord didn’t trust her visions, but the rest of the council knew the power of R’hllor and said nothing when Stannis nodded and said. “Let this Ser Bronn earn his rewards in my service or not at all.”  
  
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lord Alester said. “Lastly there is the matter of some disturbing reports from the Stormlands. Lord Estermont writes that he has been attacked by pirates and his island is under blockade. Lady Mary Mertyns writes that Weeping Town has been captured by these pirates and that they are using it as a base to advance deeper inland. Lord Swann claims that there are raiders in the Dornish Marches, Dornish riders to be precise.”  
  
“Why would the Dornish attack now?” Ardrian Celtigar shook his head. “And pirates? This makes no sense.”  
  
“What of Lord Mathis’ and his deserters?” Justin Massey asked.  
  
“Lord Elwood’s scouts place them near Felwood and moving further into the Stormlands,” Lord Alester answered.  
  
“Trying to join forces with the pirates and Dornish most likely,” Lord Yohn Royce growled. “Could they have been paid off by the Lannisters?”  
  
“Doubtful my lord,” Lord Alester said. “Lord Mathis and his men betrayed Joffrey at Bitterbridge. This must be some ploy by Mathis Rowan.”  
  
“Or the Tyrells,” Justin Massey said.  
  
“No. This must've been planned for months. Lord Mace would have still lived and he hated the Dornish more than any man alive after Prince Oberyn maimed Willas.”  
  
“Mathis Rowan must be crushed,” Stannis said. “If the pirates and Dornish raiders are with him or not they will be crushed in turn. I will lead the greater part of the army south recall Ser Mark Mullendore from chasing Joffrey and have him focus on harassing the Tyrells and what few Reachlords remain to them.” Stannis turned to look at the most silent member of the council. “Maester Cressen, you have something you wanted to say,” Stannis said to the old man.  
  
“A letter from the Wall Your Grace, it came some time ago, but Lord Alester did not care to see it.” For a moment the Hand of the King’s handsome face was marred by a frown. Maester Cressen pulled a folded piece of parchment from his sleeve unfolded it and began to read. "To the five kings," Stannis began to grind his teeth. "The King beyond the Wall comes south. He leads a vast host of wildlings. Lord Mormont sent a raven from the Haunted Forest. He is under attack. Other birds have come since with no words. We fear Mormont slain with all strength. We are outnumbered worse than a score to one. The lords of the North have not answered our calls. We beg your aid in these times without it the Wall will fall and the wild horde will take the North.”  
  
_I have been blind_ , Melisandre thought. _The fights of men mean nothing if the Wall should fall_ … “Your Grace, the true enemy gathers in the farthest north these wildlings are His unwitting tools.”  
  
“Your Grace,” Lord Alester spoke in cloying tones. “We have enough troubles in the south. Rebels still hold much of the Reach and Westerlands, a host of pirates attack the Stormlands, Ironmen reave the western shore, and half the North is still in rebellion. Perhaps these wildlings are exactly the punishment that the Northerners deserve for their treason.”  
  
Lord Celtigar was content to say nothing while Lord Royce’s hands gripped the table. “My youngest son, Waymar, was a brother of the Night’s Watch, he was killed by the wildlings. Forgive me, Your Grace, I fear my judgment is skewed in this.”  
  
“Your Grace,” Cressen spoke. “A king who does not defend his kingdoms has no claim to them.”  
  
Stannis’ frown deepened, but the sound of grinding teeth stopped. “Lord Alester is right, we cannot afford to send more ships and soldiers to the North, but neither can I do nothing. Send a raven north, command Lord Bolton to defend the Wall. I have named him my Warden of the North now let him earn the title. I charge Lord Roose to do his duty to defend the North and beat back those who would ravage my kingdom. Inform Imry Florent to return south. I will have need of the Royal Fleet,” Stannis stood and left the small council chamber, followed by his kingsguard, as clear a dismissal as any.  
  
However, as Melisandre stood to leave Devan Seaworth reentered the chamber. “Lady Melisandre,” he called. "The king requests your presence.”  
  
Melisandre didn't let her surprise show. Since Bitterbridge, Stannis had been avoiding her, most likely at Lord Alester’s and Maester Cressen’s suggestion. She nodded and turned to follow the king’s squire. “As His Grace commands," she said quietly.  
  
Azor Ahai Reborn was waiting for her in his solar. He stood at the window staring east across Blackwater Bay. Melisandre walked up behind him. “What would you have of me?” Stannis did not move or speak for several seconds. At last, he turned away from the window and tossed a scrap of leather at Melisandre. She caught it without hesitation. “Part of a saddle."  
  
“Part of Shireen’s saddle,” Stannis said. “Cut, just enough so it would weaken and break during her ride with the Stark girl and send her falling. It was only luck that she broke an arm instead of a neck.”  
  
“Only R’hllor’s will.”  
  
“Find out who tried to kill Shireen,” he turned his back to face the Narrow Sea again.  
  
Melisandre bowed to his back and turned to return to the stifling heat of her chambers, where a fire was kept burning at all times. From her window, she could see the mouth of the Blackwater and the squat tower being built on the shore. A corner of land between the river, sea, and the walls of the Red Keep. It would be of packed earth, sheathed in stone with sloped walls that would run directly into the sea and against the cliffs beneath the Red Keep. Trenches had been mined out with pickaxes for the foundations, stakes marked the lines of future walls, and stone harvested from the Dragonpit was being piled to make a breakwater and eventually the walls. Dragons placed there would dominate the Blackwater and make King’s Landing almost immune to attack from the sea.  
  
Melisandre turned away from the window and focused on the flames instead. She rubbed the scrap of leather between her fingers as she searched the fire for a sign. But the more she looked for something to lead to the assassins, the more the black eye she filled her mind. _Someone's trying to use the flames to spy on Azor Ahai Reborn_. Her ruby began to pulse as she stared into the flames.

 

Sansa  
  
She woke gradually, rising up from sleep like steam from the hot springs of Winterfell. She was in her room, though she had no memory of returning to it. There was no sign of looting, and nothing was out of place. _Maybe it was all a dream_ , she thought, _maybe Casterly Rock still stands_ , _and the Lannisters still rule_. She rose slowly from the bed, her body ached, and her head was fuzzy. Everything seemed to be blurred, colours bled into each other, and the whole world seemed slightly off-kilter.  
  
It was daytime now, and sunlight shone through the open doors of her balcony. Sansa rose to her unsteady feet, wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, and walked into the sunlight. Euron waited for her. _Not a dream then_ , Sansa thought with cruel satisfaction as she watched the Iron King lean against the stone and gaze out to sea with his lone eye. He didn’t react as Sansa approached him. The bright noonday sun sent a shock of pain through her fuzzy brain and Sansa stumbled and fell to the ground. Euron made no move to help her.  
  
“Three days,” he said. “You slept for three days.” Euron’s turned to face her, his eye burrowing into her soul. “What did it taste like?” The King of the Iron Islands asked.  
  
“Your Grace?” Sansa pulled her blanket up protectively.  
  
“The corpse you ate, the corpse on the beach. What did it taste like?”  
  
She shook her head. “No. That- that was just a dream, that’s all.”  
  
“Don’t lie to me girl,” his blue eye sparkled like a piece of ice under a moon's cold light. “What did it taste like?”  
  
_It was just a dream_ , Sansa told herself, _that’s all_. But she knew it was a lie she could feel the wind beneath her wings, wings not arms, feel the flesh give way beneath her beak, and the taste of human flesh. “Salty,” she said. “And wet.”  
  
“To eat of human meat is abomination,” Euron said. “So tell me are you an abomination? A monster that wears the skins of birds and beasts and feasts on human flesh?”  
  
Sansa trembled and said nothing. A few seconds of silence passed, a silence pierced only by the sound of gulls and crows flying below them around the base of the mountain and on the beach. Sansa peered over the edge to look at the birds, and for a moment had the brief sensation of near weightlessness as her wings carried her over the rocks and the waves.  
  
“That’s what the old crow said to me,” Euron spoke again. “Abomination this, forbidden that, he wanted to chain be but I refused. Blood and sacrifice broke my bonds. Come,” Euron turned to go back inside, Sansa followed. He led inside where one of his men was waiting with a small dog and a wineskin.  
  
Euron took the skin and put the dog on the bed, a strong hand tight around its neck. He took a sip passed the skin to her. More shade of the evening, Sansa thought, a strange tingle of longing passed up her spine. Euron passed the skin to her. “Drink,” he commanded.  
  
Sansa didn’t hesitate this time. She feared what would happen if she did, and… she remembered the way her blood had begun to sing the first night she drank the thick dark liquid. She wanted to feel that way again. Sansa drained the entire skin and did not spill a drop. The world wavered and trembled, her skin flushed with warmth, and her blood sang.  
  
“Power,” Euron said. “Comes from blood and sacrifice. Kill the dog.” Sansa felt her heart jump. “Cut its throat,” Euron smiled madly. “Cut its throat, let the blood spill over your hands, feel life leave its body.”  
  
The Shade of the Evening made the blood in her veins sing, and her heart beat like thunder. The world seemed to slow as Euron pushed the knife into Sansa’s hand. Her heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest. The world itself was shimmering like a pond in sunlight. Everything seemed brighter. The dog was trembling in Euron’s grip.  
  
“Do it.” The king commanded. He pulled her closer when Sansa hesitated. “Kill it!”  
  
She was trembling the knife was unsteady in her hands. “Please-”  
  
“Please?” Euron said, strangely calm after his outburst. “You wanted to be free from fear,” he smiled. “Or maybe you were just afraid of me? Either way,” he shrugged. “Kill the dog or there will be a price to pay.” His voice was as cold and cruel as the winter sea.  
  
Sansa closed her eyes and pulled the knife. The dog kicked and struggled, spraying blood over her and the bed, but eventually, he went still. She fell weeping onto her bed. When she opened her eyes Euron was gone, the dog's corpse had been taken, and her bed was soaked in blood.  
  
The dog was only the first of many sacrifices. Euron came every morning, made her drink Shade of the Evening and had her kill something. Dogs, cats, ravens, goats, and sheep. Sometimes he brought more than one animal and had her kill two in quick succession. No servants came with clothes or sheets, and they came only rarely with water. For the first few days Sansa tried to clean her clothes with the water that came, but then she had naught to drink for the rest of the day. There was also something strange about the blood when it touched her skin. When Shade of the Evening still sang in her veins it seemed like the blood without would sing as well.  
  
On the fifth day, she asked the servant that brought her water. “Could I have Shade of the Evening?” Before ten minutes had passed a new skin was brought to Sansa, she drank it all and didn't spill a drop. She laid back in her bed and listened to the blood sing. The blood in her veins, the blood that was crusted on her hands and beneath her fingernails, the blood that stained her increasingly ragged dress, the blood that covered her bed, and the blood that pooled on her floors.  
  
The blood sang a song about a young, proud lion and two hounds. The elder hound, scarred and loyal, and the other, a young and vicious wolfhound. The two hounds fought for the attention of the lion snapping and biting at each other. For a time the lion favoured the scarred hound, but then the wolfhound began to savage the lion’s foes and to bring scraps and corpses back to the lion. The scarred hound was left to sulk in the rain. But then the lion was beaten in battle and became injured. His fur grew spotty with mange. The old hound helped the lion stand and defended him from scavengers. Meanwhile, the young hound fled to the safety of a stag’s forest.  
  
An eternity in an endless darkness passed her by. At some point, Sansa realised that she was dreaming. She stood naked on a field of darkness, beneath a sky of darkness, and surrounded by darkness. The only thing she could see was herself. The ground she stood on was soft and wet, almost spongy beneath her feet. Sansa reached down and groped blindly at the ground. Her fingers broke the ground and picked a part of it up. She brought it into the light of her own body. It was a flower she didn’t recognise. The bulb was made of layers of petals radiating away from the center. Perhaps at one time, it would have been sweet smelling and colourful, but now it was charred black and stank of death. Thunder echoed overhead, and Sansa dropped the flower. Lightning crackled in the dark sky, its blue-yellow light revealed the ground to be an endless field of identical blackened and burned flowers.  
  
The lightning cracked and the thunder roared as the storm above Sana swelled in power. Harsh winds blew cold rain into her, beating her like a thousand hammers. Sansa fell to the ground, her hands and knees sinking deep into the dead flowers, she pulled her body in on itself, as the rain pummeled her. The storm swept across the ground, its winds and rains making a wall that flung the dead flowers into the air and tore them apart. She could see everything now, the lightning was endless and the thunder was overwhelming. At some point, Sansa realised she was screaming. The storm came closer, racing over the ground like nothing she’d seen before, a wall of bright lightning, echoing thunder, slamming rain, and biting wind. The clouds billowed and ran like ink forming a terrible face that laughed like thunder as it struck Sansa like a catapult’s boulder. And then her dream ended.  
  
When she opened her eyes she saw moonlight poured through her window like a rainbow of snow and milk. Sansa pushed herself up and gasped in pain. With hesitant fingers, she pulled back the blood-stained sleeve of her dress and revealed the countless bruises that layered her body. Sansa rubbed at them, hoping she could simply wipe them away, all she got for her efforts was sending a wave of pain through her body.  
  
Euron sat by the window, bathing in the liquid light, and wrapped in a large dark cloak. Sansa sat upright, watching the walls and ceiling tremble slightly, and shift colours. Black to white, grey to green, and shimmering purple and pink. Euron held a skin in his fingers, as she watched he let the cord slip and the skin fell. Euron caught it again almost immediately, but a single shimmering drop fell from the spout and fell to the floor. Shade of the evening. Sansa’s heart thundered with her want, her need, for more of that strange concoction. Euron twiddled the skin in his fingers, but his eye never left Sansa.  
  
Euron didn't spare Sansa a glance as he stared out the window. “Power,” he said. “Comes from blood and sacrifice. The Children of the Forest knew this, the Valyrians knew it, the Qohoriks and Ashai’i know it still.” Euron smiled. “What is one life or even a hundred lives compared to power? Nothing. Lives are cheap, men, women, children they swarm across every land in uncountable numbers,” he spat on the ground, his face marred by disgust. “Useless little lives that only have meaning once I snuff them out to make something greater.” Euron looked at her, his eye almost glowing in the moonlight. “I think you’re ready,” he stood quickly and stepped closer. He took Sansa by the hand and pulled her from her blood-soaked bed.  
  
Euron led her from her room and into the corridors of Casterly Rock. He led her down the servant's stairs, less crowded and more direct than the main passages. There were bloodstains on the floors, and the servants and thralls ducked their heads when Euron and Sansa passed them. He led her into the kitchens, then through them to the butcher’s shop. Myrielle Lannister lay bound, blindfolded, and crying on a table. “Cut her throat,” Euron slipped a bronze dagger covered in strange markings into Sansa’s hand. Myrielle cried out in fear.  
  
“I… I can’t.”  
  
“Why not?” Euron whispered into her ear. “She’s a Lannister, you hate them don’t you? You hated her your husband. You hate her.” The mention of Daven made Sansa’s stomach squeeze in fear, disgust, and hate. Euron grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight around the dagger. “If you want to be free from fear, then this," he smiled and nodded and Myrielle. "Is the next step.”  
  
“I need to drink first,” Sansa reached for the skin of shade of the evening.  
  
Euron pulled it away. “Just a sip,” his eye was hard. “If you want the rest than kill her first,” he held the skin out and let Sansa drink for a bare second before he roughly pushed Sansa toward Myrielle. Sansa stumbled slightly, the now familiar singing in her blood pushed her forward as she stumbled toward the Lannister woman.  
  
“Please,” Myrielle cried. “Please Sansa. We’re goodsisters, we’re family.”  
  
Sansa felt something in her break, and suddenly she was back in King’s Landing, watching her father’s head fall to the ground. With shaking hands, she raised the dagger. “No. You killed my family.” With both hands, Sansa brought the knife back down and cut Myrielle's throat. As the knife cut through flesh, warm blood spurted, and Sansa gasped. She had felt it before when she’d killed the animals, the singing in her blood, something that could be safely ignored, the fault of Shade of the Evening. But this was something stronger and greater it filled her, body and soul, and then it was gone. The strength went out of her body and Sansa fell to the ground. Euron was laughing as he pushed the skin into her hands. Sansa drank deeply, greedily. Her blood sang with the power of sacrifice, louder and stronger than ever before, like a storm in her veins.


	23. Chapter 22 (Sansa, Arianne, Mathis, Quentyn)

Sansa  
  
She strode slowly on her bare feet through the field. She stepped carefully to avoid the arrows and blades that lay scattered on the muddy ground. The mud wasn't made by rain or flood water but with blood. The blood of the Westermen who lay dead in the thousands. Walking and flying among them were the scavengers ravens, crows, vultures, feral dogs, foxes, and Ironmen. They all parted before her. The Ironmen knew she was Euron’s woman, so they dared not touch her. The Ironmen called her a witch, a skinchanger. They called her mad. _Two out of three isn’t bad_ , Sansa thought as she stepped over the corpse of a Crakehall knight. Two reavers looting the corpse of a Banefort knight averted their eyes as she walked past them.  
  
Sansa shivered in anticipation as she stepped into a deep pool of blood, goosebumps spread up her legs as it seeped over her skin. She had drunk shade of the evening before she’d begun her walk and so her bones and blood began to sing. Though of late she sometimes found that she didn’t need the strange wine to feel the power of blood or to see visions in her dreams. She’d seen many things in the blood dreams now, but first and foremost was always the storm. The great, dreadful, terrible storm she’d seen in her first dream. With her foot in the pool of blood, she was suddenly returned there. She could see the dead flowers being ripped asunder by the force of the storm, smell the rain, and hear the thunder. The wind was ripping the flesh from her body, then her bones were torn apart. Until all that was left was her soul and then Sansa was the storm. She stepped out of the pool of blood and the memory ended.  
  
Sansa turned to look up at the hill where a wagon and a cage rested, Cersei Lannister was imprisoned within. Her path had taken her on a long loop around the battlefield from where the killing had begun at the base of the hill where corpses lay in heaps, and to the edge of the field where the Westermen had fled beyond sight.  
  
“I want her blood,” Sansa’s had said a week past. “I want her dead.”  
  
“No,” Euron had replied. “Her time is not yet come. To kill her now would be a mercy, let her suffer first. But I promise you can kill Joffrey when the time comes.”  
  
It has been Sansa’s idea to take Cersei to the battlefield in a cage, to let her watch as her son’s army, her hope of rescue was destroyed. The thought had warmed her sleep and her dreams of storms and death. Sansa smiled stepped around a wheezing man with an arrow in his gut.  
  
“Please,” he begged. “Mercy.”  
  
She ignored him, the man served House Lannister, he deserved no mercy. He was only one of the hundreds who littered the field, almost all of them Westermen. The battle should have been risky and hard fought on both sides. The Ironmen had slightly more men, but the Westermen had more knights. On the wide fields and rolling hills that separated Casterly Rock and Lannisport from the mountains, those knights should have proven key, should have dominated the battlefield. Sansa smiled, _should have_ , she thought.  
  
A day before the battle a hundred horses had been butchered and their blood set to boil in cauldrons. Euron had a vast stew of ash, wood, and wolf fur made and then mixed it with the horse blood. When the Ironmen arrived and took up their positions on a line of long low hills, some barely a dozen feet higher than the surrounding plain, the blood was taken from the cauldrons and spread in a wide arc a hundred paces away from the Ironmen host.  
  
When Joffrey and his army arrived hours later they saw their enemy waiting exposed and unprotected. No trenches, no ditches, no rows of stakes, no earthen ramparts, nor even overturned wagons to defend against a great charge of the western knights. Even the Ironmen archers were exposed as they waited in the front lines of the Ironman army. Joffrey had readied his troops for barely twenty minutes before launching his attack. More than three thousand knights arrayed in a long line, a line that would crash into the Ironmen and send them flying. Their speed had risen the closer they grew. Sansa had felt the earth shake with their coming. Cersei had smiled and gloated from within her cage, sure in the glory of her son’s victory. Some of the more craven Ironmen had started to run away from the fight already.  
  
Then the knights met the line of blood and the charge ended. The horses, all of them, suddenly stopped. They screamed and reared in total panic, and they died as thousands of arrows fell on them. It was a slaughter, the horses refused to advance any farther, and with the press of the other riders behind them, they couldn’t retreat either. Behind them, the mass of western foot had continued to advance but was now beginning to press against their own lords and knights. They couldn’t advance and they couldn’t retreat, they were trapped. It seemed like the arrows fell forever, and as the pride of Western chivalry was dying the Ironmen spread around their flanks and charged the leaderless and terrified western host and smashed them into the dirt. Many of the infantry had escaped, dropping their weapons and armour to let them flee more quickly, but hundreds were dead nonetheless, and near a thousand had been taken prisoner. Sansa had watched it all happen from the eyes of a hawk.  
  
The victory, however, was secondary to what really mattered, Sansa quickened her pace as she approached. Most important of all Joffrey was in chains. Sansa quickened her step as she saw the bound king being dragged toward Euron. Five reavers had pulled Joffrey off his horse and took him prisoner. Behind them, another prisoner was being dragged a huge man with a white cloak. _The Hound_ , she realised as the bound figure in white turned his head at her approach.  
  
His good eye went wide. “Little bird,” he gasped. His armour and cloak were stained with blood that ran from wounds high on his left side.  
  
A reaver punched him in the face. “Quiet you.”  
  
Sansa stopped and looked to Euron unsure of what to do or to say.  
  
Euron ignored her and squinted at Joffrey. “What’s in his mouth?” He asked.  
  
“My sock,” a reaver answered. “The bugger wouldn’t shut up about his kingly rights. How we had to treat him right. Hah!” The reaver kicked Joffrey in the ribs, sending the king to the ground. Joffrey moaned pathetically.  
  
Euron chuckled and plucked the gag from Joffrey’s mouth. “Care to comment on my hospitality Your Grace?” Joffrey said nothing, not even daring to raise his eyes. “Nothing? How disappointing. I so dearly wished to speak to a fellow king.”  
  
Joffrey sat up slowly and spoke sullenly. “You aren’t a king.”  
  
“He speaks!”  
  
“I am the one true king,” Joffrey’s voice grew louder with anger. “The Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and the Protector of the Realm!”  
  
Euron waved a hand and the reaver kicked Joffrey again. “I have to say you’re doing a very poor job of protecting your realm. Which kingdoms were you lord of again? The Reach? Hmm no, they hate you almost as much as they hate Stannis. Riverlands, Stormlands, the North, heh, all for Stannis more or less. Dorne is fighting for someone else entirely. The Vale can’t seem to decide on anything. Then of course,” Euron waved a hand around them, taking in the Ironmen and the battlefield. “The Iron Islands obviously don’t care for you either, and the West is broken, Casterly Rock has fallen.” He leaned into Joffrey’s face. “What were you king of again?”  
  
Joffrey fell back to his knees. “I am the rightful king,” he mumbled pathetically.  
  
Euron shook his head. “Foolish boy,” he grabbed Joffrey’s chin and smiled. “But blood is blood,” Euron glanced at Sansa. “I know someone who would very much like to kill you,” he forced Joffrey to look at Sansa, whose hand had fallen to her bronze, rune engraved dagger.  
  
“Please,” Joffrey begged. “Please don’t.”  
  
Sansa lunged, cat quick, to drive her dagger into Joffrey. Euron’s hand snapped out like a viper and took her wrist. The dagger trembled inches away from Joffrey’s throat. Joffrey fell back with a strangled scream.  
  
“Not yet,” Euron said with a cruel smile.  
  
Sandor Clegane gasped. “Little Bird-”  
  
Euron backhanded him with the butt of his axe before the huge man could say any more. “Little bird,” he spat on the Hound. “Are you a little bird,” he asked Sansa. “A bird to be caged and imprisoned at will? A tiny thing?”  
  
“No.” _Not anymore_.  
  
“Then prove it. Kill him. Kill this dog.”  
  
Sansa’s hand tightened around her dagger. “He was kind to me.”  
  
“So was Myrielle,” Euron whispered slyly.  
  
“That was different. She was a Lannister.”  
  
Euron beat the Hound again with his axe. “And he’s a Lannister dog. His kindness was only lies.” Euron moved behind her and leaned over her shoulder. “It meant nothing.”  
  
“Little Bird,” Sandor Clegane mumbled again through broken teeth.  
  
“What are you?” Euron whispered into her ear. “A little bird or a storm?”  
  
Sansa raised her dagger. “I’m not a bird,” memories of dreams and vision rang through her body, following the path of her singing blood. Black clouds and swift wings. A severed head on the steps of a sept. “I’m a storm.” Sansa drove the dagger into the Hound’s neck. Joffrey moaned through his gag. Sansa pulled her bloody dagger from the Hound. “Him next,” she smiled and raised her dagger to drive it into Joffrey.  
  
“No, no, no,” Euron said quietly as he seized her arm. “Not him, not yet, I need him. There’s power in kingsblood.”  
  
Sansa struggled in vain against Euron’s strength. “He killed my father! He ruined everything!” Joffrey trembled on the ground his wormy lips shivered in terror that Sansa could almost taste.  
  
“His time will come, but not yet. Now’s not the time. Take him to the camp,” he ordered the Ironmen.  
  
Sansa struggled. “No! No! You promised me-” Euron hit her. Sansa fell, stunned by the sudden violence. She felt blood trickle down her face, from where his rings had cut her scalp.  
  
“Shut up,” he stepped over her. Sansa shivered on the ground, not from cold but from anger. He promised. “Come,” he said, like a master to a dog. “Come, we have work yet to do this day.”  
  
Sansa stood slowly and followed her master. They walked back to the camp, crossing the field of corpses and blood, and passing by the long low rampart of death that marked the edge of the sorcery Euron had made. Sansa, a long streak of drying blood on her face and shoulders, rode behind the king silently, for a time. “Why?” She asked at last through choked down her anger. “Why spare Joffrey?”  
  
“There’s power in kingsblood,” Euron said again, his voice now light and calm. Just as quickly as his anger had risen, it was gone again. The Iron King was mercurial, cruel to happy to angry to cruel again in as many minutes. “He will die at the right time and not a second sooner,” his voice as sharp and commanding as a whip.  
  
“What’s so special about kingsblood?”  
  
“Everything.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you just keep Tommen? He was crowned, he was King Robert’s son.”  
  
“It takes more than a crown to make a king. More than a crowd of screaming drunks. To truly be a king is something else entirely. Tommen had a king’s blood aye, but that isn’t enough. I need a king, not a king’s son. And Joffrey is a king, a poor king but a king nonetheless. A king in the eyes of gods and men.”  
  
Sansa said nothing as she followed.  
  
Euron spoke on. “This is but the first battle, there are many more to come, more important battles.”  
  
Sansa hesitated a second. “Where will we go next.”  
  
Euron spared her a glance. “We already? How fast you learn, but so much more remains. Don’t concern yourself with what things that are yet to come, just do as I say,” Euron’s pace quickened.  
  
The Ironmen camp was a mile away from the site of the battle, close enough to gather their loot but far enough to be away from the stench of death and rot. Euron sent Sansa on to his tent while he entertained his followers, _my foolish little people_ , as he called them. Sansa entered the tent and quickly kindled a fire in the brazier. She settled before it, sipping shade of the evening as she watched the flames dance.  
  
Within the hour Euron returned, wine and ale on his breath, but walking steadily nonetheless. He settled down next to the brazier, laying back on a pile of furs. He rubbed his eye beneath the patch before speaking. “Dreams are where a man’s heart is laid bare. His hopes, desires, fears, ambitions, and,” Euron smiled. “Their nightmares. By entering the dream one can find those weaknesses and exploit them, or to use them to terrify.” Sansa looked away from the flames, Euron’s blue eye glittered with malice in the dark. He reached out and sprinkled some seeds into the brazier. “Their smoke will ease your path.”  
  
Sansa watched as the seeds began to tremble and pop, as they did the smoke grew thicker and sweeter. She leaned forward, breathed deeply, and waited, nothing happened. There was nothing, no tingling or singing in the blood. “Did it wor-” There was darkness and then Sansa slipped into the dream with Euron. There was darkness and then from that darkness came a hall of red stone, a hall within the Red Keep. In the hall was a man, a handsome man with long black hair, a lined tanned face, and long black hair. He was fighting in light armour and was armed with a long bladed spear, his foes were monstrous men with the forms of manticores, dogs, and lions. Sansa and Euron appeared like ghosts at the far end of the hall from the man, behind them was a stout wooden door being hammered against by a huge monster with three heads and a greatsword.  
  
The man cut the smaller monsters apart, filleting them with contemptuous ease with his spear, and slicing open throats with quick thrusts and cuts. He screamed all the while and terrible scream of anguish and rage that could not have come from any human throat, not within a dream. “ELIAAAAA!” He screamed as he killed and killed and killed, but never came any closer to the door and the monster that was beating it down. Sansa frowned, something about the dream seemed, queer to her senses, almost rehearsed like some bit of court pageantry.  
  
“He has the same dream almost every week,” Euron said. “And has for years, but,” he looked at the monster that had almost torn down the door now. Sansa could hear a woman screaming inside, children too. “He’s never saved them,” Euron chuckled. “Or even come close.” Euron turned his head, like a bird looking at a particularly fine morsel. “Let’s change things.”  
  
  
Suddenly the man was advancing against the horde of monsters. Where before the dead had always been replaced, now they were falling like wheat before a scythe. As he charged the three-headed monster smashed down the door and went to work inside, the screaming man followed, his spear drenched in blood. Without taking a step Sansa and Euron were inside the room. The man and the monster fought each other over the mangled corpse of a woman and two children, a young girl, and a baby. The monster swung, chopped, thrust, and cut with a huge sword while the man swirled and danced to avoid the deadly blade. All the while he attacked in return with his spear, thrusting at the face, armpits, elbows, or else trying to get behind and cut the monster at the knee. He was screaming and crying as he fought.  
  
  
Euron cocked his head again and closed his eye for a moment. The monster’s blade slowed and missed a parry, letting the man drive his spear into a gap in his foe’s plate armour. The monster was slowed and suffered another wound shortly after, and another, and another. Euron focussed again, and with a final scream, the man drove his spear deep into the monster. The man gasped for breath and with a tear soaked gasp turned to the woman and began to cradle her corpse in his arms. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said over and over.  
  
Euron put a hand on Sansa’s shoulder. “Change something,” Euron he whispered in her ear. “Shape the dream, make this nightmare even worse. Make him feel your pain.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Just focus, feel the power in your veins and let it flow out into the dream, like slipping into an animals mind, but more subtle. Not command or control, but a suggestion. The subtle twist of a well placed dagger instead of a hammer blow.”  
  
Sansa closed her eyes and focused, she felt her blood sing and tried she to reach out. Nothing happened.  
  
“Not enough,” Euron took her head between his hands. “Focus!”  
  
Sansa winced beneath the pressure, closed her eyes and tried again. This time she tried to follow the singing. She tried to hear the pattern, tried to find the source. A minute seemed to pass, an hour, a decade. The singing in her blood began to deepen, it became louder, like thunder. Sansa opened her eyes and reached out. She fell to her knees, the pressure mounting in her head, it felt like it was going to crack open like an egg. Distantly she could hear the words of the dead be whispered in her own mind before they were spoken aloud.  
  
Across the room, the dead woman shifted, she looked up at the man cradling her corpse. “You failed us,” she moaned.  
  
“Uncle,” the little girl cried. “Why didn’t you save us?”  
  
“You killed us,” said the baby.  
  
The man cried in shock and horror and fell back against the wall, tears on his cheeks.  
  
“Murderer,” the left head growled. “As guilty as us,” the middle head accused in a proud tone. The last head growled like a hunting hound that had scented fresh blood. Then the woman and her children began to crawl toward the man, leaving trails of blood behind them, their eyes had all turned a cold clear blue.  
  
The man’s screams echoed in her flesh and Sansa clutched her head as the pain became overwhelming. But just as it seemed like her brain would erupt from her skull, Euron pulled her away. The screams grew distant and the world grew darker until there was nothing to see but blackness. The ground was hard as stone and Sansa groped blindly in the dark. Her fingers touched something soft and wet. She took it in her hands as Euron placed a hand on her head, petting her like he would a favoured dog, and brought her into the light.  
  
“The age of man is ended.” Euron smiled as the darkness shifted. Great winds rose from nothing, the hard ground shook, and the sky became crisscrossed with white bolts. “The time of nightmares has begun.”  
  
Thunder roared in the distance. Sansa looked down, in her hand was a strange flower, burnt black by lighting. The storm roared again.

 

Arianne  
  
The Golden Company had travelled to the coast of the Disputed Lands. From a port nominally controlled by Tyrosh, they took ship with the waiting fleet. There were pirates by the score, old allies from the War of the Ninepenny Kings, and others bribed by the coffers of the Pentoshi merchant Illyrio Mopatis. Illyrio had also hired a merchant fleet, and Arianne’s own father had sent a few Dornish ships to join the fleet as well. With them had come news and five hundred Dornish spears. A small host was gathering to guard the Prince’s Pass, while Prince Oberyn and his daughters led a second larger host through the Boneway, and into the Stormlands.  
  
From the Stepstones they made way to Weeping Town, where the corpse of the Young Dragon had once lingered for three days on its journey home from Dorne. Part of the fleet, commanded by Ser Marq Mandrake had travelled ahead to take the town and prepare it for King Aegon’s arrival. Another detachment led by Torman Peake travelled to Estermont to secure the coast of the Stormlands. The rest of the fleet moved more slowly, shadowing the coast of the Stormlands as they travelled to Weeping Town. Now as the port came into sight they could see that the banners flapping from the town’s stout wooden walls bore a red dragon on a black field.  
  
“I should have been here,” Aegon said, the blue dye had been washed out and locks of silver now flew in the breeze. “I should have lead the attack. I should have been the first to step foot in the Seven Kingdoms.”  
  
“You want to be the Conqueror come again?” Arianne asked, a hint of mockery in her voice. “You may have dragons,” she spared a glance at one of the great bronze monster’s that rested on pallets on the main deck and the queer foreigners that cared for them. “But these ones won’t save you from knights or archers.”  
  
“It would have been kingly,” he said. “My father never shirked from battle.”  
  
_And look what happened to him_ , she wanted to say but held her tongue. Instead, she said. “It’s not shirking to give the job to the best man.”  
  
Aegon said nothing at the large Stormlander town grew closer.  
  
Ser Franklyn Flowers met them at the docks with a squad of pikemen and archers. “Your Grace,” he said as Aegon stomped down the gangplank. “Princess,” the bastard Reachman bowed his head as Arianne approached. “Weeping Town is yours Your Grace, the first of many to owe you fealty.”  
  
Aegon smiled and began to mingle with the men, putting aside his youthful bitterness to be a king. Farther down the docks the other ships were offloading their passengers. Black Balaq led a company of archers off the ships and made for the walls. Marq Mandrake shouted commands at knights and footmen alike from atop a stack of boxes. Laswell Peake was directing a pair of elephants off a huge cog, over a dozen more cogs just like it waited out at sea. In total, nearly fifty elephants accompanied the Golden Company. Other sergeants and captains were at work offloading thousands of men onto the docks.  
  
Jon Connington approached them now with trimmed hair, splendid plate armour, and a surcoat with the dueling griffins of his house emblazoned. He looked like a true lord now instead of a ruffian sellsword. “Your Grace,” he bowed his head. Harry Strickland followed not far behind him, his round face flushed with sweat.  
  
Aegon smiled. “You're looking well,” he said to Jon Connington.  
  
“It’s good to be in Westeros again. The closest I’ve been to home in… in too many years Your Grace.”  
  
“I’ll see to it that your rightful home is restored to you.” Aegon turned to the other captains. “Where now? Do we move to strike Mistwood?” Aegon asked the lords and captains. “Storm’s End? King’s Landing?”  
  
“No,” Harry Strickland said at once to the agreement of his commanders. “We will travel along the coast to the Red Mountains, where Prince Oberyn waits with ten thousand Dornishmen.”  
  
Jon Connington frowned but before he said anything else Aegon nodded. “I look forward to meeting my uncle.”  
  
They spent the night in Weeping Town’s wooden keep, and the next morning they set forth to Golden Company set out for Stonehelm. They marched as the first rays of the rising sun brightened the green fields of Cape Wrath. They followed the main road, which ran inland toward the Rainwood before turning west to follow the edges of the forest. By midmorning, a light rain began to fall as they made their way north and west through a land of green fields and little villages. Further north, Arianne could see the fields gradually gave way to rolling hills and thick groves of the ancient forest.  
  
The noonday sun them on the fringes of the rainwood, a wet green world where brooks and rivers ran through dark forests and the ground was made of mud and rotting leaves. Huge willows grew along the watercourses, larger than any that Arianne had ever seen, their great trunks as gnarled and twisted as an old man’s face and festooned with beards of silvery moss. The trees pressed close, shutting out the sun. Hemlock and red cedars, white oaks, soldier pines that stood as tall and straight as towers, colossal sentinels, big-leaf maples, redwoods, wormtrees, even here and there a wild weirwood. Underneath their tangled branches ferns and flowers grew in profusion; sword ferns, lady ferns, bellflowers and piper’s lace, evening stars and poison kisses, liverwort, lungwort, hornwort. Mushrooms sprouted down amongst the tree roots, and from their trunks as well, pale spotted hands that caught the rain. Other trees were furred with moss, green or grey or red-tailed, and once a vivid purple. Lichens covered every rock and stone. Toadstools festered besides rotting logs. The very air seemed green.  
  
Arianne had once heard her father and Maester Caleotte arguing with a septon about why the north and south sides of the Sea of Dorne were so different. The septon thought it was because of Durran Godsgrief, the first Storm King, who had stolen the daughter of the sea god and the goddess of the wind and earned their eternal enmity. Prince Doran and the maester inclined more toward wind and water and spoke of how the big storms that formed down in the Summer Sea would pick up moisture moving north until they slammed into Cape Wrath. For some strange reason the storms never seemed to strike at Dorne, she recalled her father saying. “I know your reason,” the septon had responded. “No Dornishman ever stole away the daughter of two gods.”  
  
The going was much slower here than it had been in Dorne. Instead of proper roads, they rode down crookback slashes that snaked this way and that, through clefts in huge moss-covered rocks and down deep ravines choked with blackberry brambles. Sometimes the track petered out entirely, sinking into bogs or vanishing amongst the ferns. Thus the march of the Golden Company was slow and tedious, wagons carrying supplies for man and animal alike became stuck constantly. Worst of all were the five wagons that carried the great bronze and iron dragons. Their immense weight drove the wheels down and dug huge troughs in the soft roads that quickly filled with water and turned the roads to mud. Men, oxen, horses, and even the elephants had to work together to pull the wagons free of the muck. In time, however, they returned to drier ground as the road moved south, away from the bogs, mud, and countless creeks.  
  
The Golden Company camped an hour later amid the wide green fields of Cape Wrath. They fortified their camp with a ditch, earthen ramparts, and a low palisade. Inside, the horselines, animals pens, tents, and pavilions were set up in orderly rows with broad avenues between them. It was much like their camp in the Disputed Lands, though not as clean, or as lived in. Once they were settled in the rain began to fall again, a steady drizzle that blanketed everything in the soft cool mist of its raindrops. The trampled grass soon became waterlogged. In her soft Dornish shoes if felt like wading through the Water Gardens, except the Water Gardens had never been so cold. Arianne hurried inside her tent and tossed her soaked shoes into a corner. She quickly dried her cold feet with a blanket.  
  
_Nym and Obara may have reached Stonehelm by now_ , she mused, as she settled down crosslegged in the shelter of her tent. _If not they ought to be there soon_. Nymeria and Obara had accompanied their father and a thousand spears from Sunspear they would have travelled the length of Dorne, gathering men as they went and over the Red Mountains into the Marches of the Stormlands. Her father’s ships had brought word that Prince Trystane was still safely back home at Sunspear, though they had said nothing of Princess Myrcella. Perhaps she was in Sunspear as well, or perhaps not. Myrcella was only a Princess by courtesy now with the fall of the Lannisters all but certain. Maybe she’d been sent elsewhere, sent somewhere so Trystane would forget her and he could be betrothed anew. That accounts for one brother, thought Arianne, but where is Quentyn? No word had come of him. Perhaps he was with Oberyn and the Sand Snakes, or in Sunspear. She hadn’t seen Quentyn for weeks before she’d left Sunspear. At the time she’d been to busy preparing for her own voyage for it to concern her she’d thought perhaps Quentyn has returned to Yronwood. But perhaps her father had other plans in motion, plans she did not yet know. On that thought, Arianne retired for the night and fell asleep to the patter of raindrops.  
  
Morning broke and the Golden Company decamped almost as quickly as they had set up the night before. The march west continued, more quickly now as the land grew higher and thus, despite the rain, drier as well. To the north, the Rainwood curved away and in the far west, the Red Mountains slowly came into view.  
  
Arianne rode up beside the flank of one of the great grey beasts, the elephants that were the pride and joy of many in the Golden Company. Even more so than the great bronze dragons that the elephants pulled in wagons or the smaller hand-dragons that a few hundred men now carried. As she drew close her mare shied away from the huge animal and its unfamiliar smell.  
  
“Princess,” a thin Volantene with white-gold hair bowed his head as she approached. Her horse shied from the elephant again, and Arianne let her step away from the beast, the Volantene followed.  
  
“I’m afraid you have the better of me ser,” Arianne said once her mare had calmed herself.  
  
“Horonno Qalgyr princess and I am no knight.”  
  
“Of course,” Arianne rode quietly for a few seconds. “My uncle fought in Essos for a time, and he told me stories about elephants when I was young. How often have you fought beside them?”  
  
“A few times,” said Horonno, with a smile and a shrug.  
  
“He said an elephant was worth fifty mounted knights. What do you think?”  
  
“I’d say he’d be right if those mounted knights had fought elephants before if their horses were used to the size and the smell. If not,” Horonno shrugged. “Then they’d be worth a hundred mounted knights.”  
  
“Do you play cyvasse?” asked Arianne. “My father has been teaching me. I am not very skilled, I must confess, but I do know that the dragon is stronger than the elephant.”  
  
“A very different kind of dragon then what the enemy has,” Horonno said.  
  
“And yet the Battle at Storm’s End was said by many to be the Field of Fire come again.”  
  
Horonno shrugged. “I must confess I know little of what happened there. In the Disputed Lands, we heard tell of many tall tales and twisted fantasy. Some claimed Stannis had awakened dragons from stone and he was Azor Ahai come again.” he chuckled. “Others, that he had bound an army of demons made from smoke and fire that laid waste to his enemies.”  
  
“In a sense the first is right I suppose,” Arianne shrugged. “Metal comes from stone after all.”  
  
“But what really happened?” Horonno pressed.  
  
Arianne wiped an errant raindrop off her nose. “What really happened is that Stannis and five thousand men destroyed a host of mounted knights four times their size. He had a dozen or so dragons, can your elephants match that?”  
  
“I confess no they can’t, but like Stannis’ dragons, the elephants won’t be fighting alone. The Golden Company will stand with them, the finest soldiers in the world,” Horonno smiled. “And we have dragons of our own.”  
  
“Fewer dragons,” Arianne said in turn. “And the men that carry them are less able than Stannis’ men.”  
  
“But our pikemen, archers, swordsmen, and knights will be all the better.”  
  
“As you will, as free brothers go, your company stands well above the rest, I grant you. Yet the Golden Company has been defeated every time it crossed into Westeros. They lost when Bittersteel commanded them, they failed the Blackfyre Pretenders, and they faltered when Maelys the Monstrous led them.”  
  
Horonno frowned. “We are at least persistent, you must admit,” he said sourly. “And some of those defeats were very close.”  
  
“And some were not, those who die in very close battle are no less dead than those who die in routs. Prince Doran, my father, is a wise man and fights only wars that he can win. If the tide of war turns against us, the Golden Company will no doubt flee back across the narrow sea, as it has done before. As Lord Connington himself did when Robert defeated him at the Battle of the Bells, Dorne has no such refuge.”  
  
“Then why are you here,” he asked. “Why does Prince Oberyn lead a host over the Red Mountains?”  
  
Arianne looked up at the Red Mountains that loomed ever closer. “Aegon is of my own blood. The son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia of Dorne, my father’s sister. Blood calls to blood.”  
  
The Volantene shook his head. “You Sunsetlanders are strange things. To fight and kill for blood and family. Such things don’t happen in Essos.”  
  
“No, in Essos wars are fought only for avarice,” Arianne tapped her heels and pushed her mare ahead to the front of the long column.  
  
Finally, after four days of marching through the rain, the black and white stone towers of Stonehelm finally emerged from the grey mist. A host was already laying siege to the castle of House Swann. Above the army flew banners blazoned with scorpions, vultures, gates, flames, the suns and spears, the host of Dorne, led by the Red Viper himself. The sound of trumpets and drums rose from the Dornish host and soon a party of riders had left the camp to meet the Golden Company. Arianne and Tyene joined Aegon, Jon Connington, Harry Strickland, and the other captains and commanders of the Golden Company to meet them. Led by Prince Oberyn, the Dornish riders came to a halt ten paces away.  
  
“Prince Oberyn,” Aegon spurred his horse forward to meet Oberyn. “It is well to meet you at last.”  
  
The Red Viper pulled his black stallion up not far from the prince and took a long look at him before nodding. “Yes, you have Elia’s look, around your chin and nose.” He sounded mournful and very tired.  
  
“Would that she was here,” Aegon said with a hint of wistfulness.  
  
“Papa,” Tyene rode up past Aegon and embraced her father.  
  
Oberyn kissed her on the forehead. “Glad to see you’ve joined us,” her uncle shouted as he rode up to her.  
  
Arianne smiled and rode up to meet him. Her smile froze when she drew closer and saw the large dark bags under his eyes. I’ve never seen him look so tired. “It’s good to be here,” she answered.  
  
“Prince Oberyn,” Jon Connington bulled his way forward. “It’s been a long time.”  
  
“Can’t you see I’m catching up with my niece Connington?” Prince Oberyn wheeled away. “Come, my lords, Your Grace night is falling and this rain is unbearable,” he turned to lead them back to the camp.  
  
“Are you alright,” Arianne asked her uncle once they were in private.  
  
“Hmm?” In the privacy of his pavilion, Oberyn seemed even more tired. Huge dark bags hung beneath his eyes and his armour seemed to weigh down on him like a mountain. “It’s, uh, it’s nothing, just… I’m just tired, a few bad dreams is all. A few nights in a soft bed will put me to rights. Once Stonehelm falls.”  
  
“How long will that take?”  
  
Oberyn shrugged and sat down with a sigh. He seemed to melt against the low chair. “I’ve been here a week already. Lord Gulian Swann is a canny and cautious man, he’s been taking in supplies since the war started and he’s kept his almost all his men at home.”  
  
“Can we take the castle?” Arianne asked as she sat on a padded stool.  
  
“By force? Yes, but it would be costly. Not something to do when Stannis has yet to be fought.”  
  
“Is he already marching?”  
  
“I should think so, but we can’t be sure yet,” Oberyn shook his head. “Bah, enough of politics and war, that can wait. Tell me about your journey, has Essos changed much?” He reached into a bag and took out some wine.  
  
“I doubt it,” Arianne said with a smile that changed to a frown. “Where is my brother?”  
  
Oberyn paused mid pour. “Ah, I imagine you aren’t asking about Trystane.”  
  
Arianne said nothing and fixed her uncle with a look. “No.”  
  
Oberyn yawned and passed her a goblet of wine and sat. “You look like your mother when you do that.”  
  
Arianne raised an eyebrow. “I hardly remember her now, it’s been too long.”  
  
“She brought my brother joy, for a time at least.”  
  
“And Quentyn?” Arianne pressed again.  
  
Oberyn sighed. “My brother was never one to be a piece in another’s game. Quentyn's gone east, to find a dragon of his own.”  
  
“Daenerys, the dragon queen.” It would be like him, to have a plan for both Targaryens?  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“King Quentyn, hmm,” Arianne shook her head. “It sounds silly.” Daenerys Targaryen was younger than Arianne by half a dozen years. What would a maid that age want with her dull bookish brother? Young girls dreamed of dashing knights with wicked smiles, not solemn boys who always did their duty. _She will want Dorne though_ , _if she hopes to sit the Iron Throne she must have Sunspear_. _If Quentyn is the price for that_ , t _hen she will have to pay for it_. “And if we both wed a dragon, if both Aegon and Daenerys refuse to step aside for the other, what then? Will Dorne tear itself apart in a second Dance or does my father have another plan?”  
  
“I don’t know, he doesn’t share everything with me either,” Oberyn yawned again. “If you’ll please this campaign has been hard, and I’m not as young as I used to be. I must sleep.”  
  
“Of course, goodnight uncle,” Arianne left her uncle and went to sleep in her own bed not long afterward. Arianne’s dreams were worried full of storms and darkness, the stuff of nightmares.

 

Mathis  
  
He jerked awake, his heart almost pounding through his chest, sweat drenched his body, and he was gasping for air. His leg was screaming in pain. He’d moved and thrashed too much in his sleep it seemed. With a gasp of pain, Mathis freed his leg from the blanket twisted around it. Sat up on his bed and held his head in his hands. _Just a dream_ , _just a nightmare_ , _just like any you’ve had before_. Battles always caused their fair share of nightmares afterward, though that was something no one wanted to speak of, it was unmanly. Nonetheless, they happened, nightmares filled with screams, the crash of steel, blood, death, and the dead. Mathis had had them for years, a few minutes to breath, maybe some wine, and he’d be fine, usually at least. Sometimes it was only his wife’s touch that could calm him. Mathis’ hand shook as he drank from the flagon of watered wine he kept at hand. But this dream had been different. Flashes returned to him as he drank.  
  
It had started like a normal dream a normal battle nightmare. Mathis had been fighting his sword in hand. The crash of steel had been overwhelming. The dying and the dead had screamed in endless agony and fought to kill the living who had so tormented them. Two dead men grabbed Mathis, it was always the same two and pulled him to the ground. One was a brown-haired bandit with a dirty jerkin, the other a hedge knight with rusty chain mail, the first two men Mathis had killed. The hedge knight held Mathis down, and the bandit raised a rusty knife to drive through Mathis’ visor. That was where the battle nightmare usually ended. But it this time it had only just begun.  
  
The fighting changed, the dead men became more savage fighting with their hands and teeth, ripping apart the living with feral strength, their eyes shining with blue light. Then the lightning crashed and the thunder roared. The wind rose and flung the living and the dead alike as if they were a child’s toys. The storm rose above everything, looming over the world and crackling with blue-white lightning. A figure flew in the storm, wrapped in wriggling things, armoured in shining darkness, and with wings formed from a hundred crows. Its eyes shined, one a brilliant blue, and the other an all consuming darkness. Behind the figure, the clouds a face formed glaring down upon the earth with unrestrained malice. Then the storm wall had crashed over him, and Mathis had woke.  
  
“Just a nightmare,” Mathis lied. He drank another mouthful of watered wine, wishing it was unwatered and began to dress for the day.  
  
They’d left the Kingswood behind three days ago. Mathis’ army moved quickly, taking the main roads as stealth was a luxury they could not afford. His outriders skirmished with the Stormlanders almost daily, but Stannis and Renly before him had taken all but the least of the Stormlands soldiery with them. All that remained were the ill trained, the young, and the old. The worst armed and the worst armoured, and less than one in fifty were mounted. Mathis’ veteran men cut the Stormlander raiders apart whenever they met. Still, they took casualties and many of the injured, despite Mathis’ best efforts, fell behind. They were left to the tender mercies of the Stormlanders. Varys rode next to Mathis at all time, he had half expected the eunuch to complain at the speed of their march. But if Varys the Spider was uncomfortable he gave no sign.  
  
The days began to bleed together, and before long the host was passing not far the Crow’s Nest of House Morrigen. They now passed through the lands between the less rugged northern branch of the Red Mountains in the west and the Rainwood in the east. Thereafter their journey became swifter and easier, House Morrigen had been one of Renly’s earliest supporters, and they had stripped their lands almost bare to support the fallen stag’s failed cause. The raids and skirmishes slowed to almost nothing, a much needed reprieve for the weary host.  
  
A few days later and they entered the lands of House Swann, but instead of Stormlanders, they met Dornish outriders. After an unfortunately tense initial standoff, things were quickly put to rights and the fast moving Dornish horsemen guided Mathis’ army to Stonehelm, where the main Dornish host and the Golden Company waited for them. As the Reachmen drew close riders raced to meet them. Dornish lords, for the most part, led by Princess Arianne, Prince Oberyn, his bastard Sand Snakes, and a surprise for both Mathis and Varys. Mathis barely held back a chortle when he saw Varys’ eyes all but burst from his skull at the sight of Littlefinger. “Lord Petyr,” Mathis said with a smile as Varys was still recovering his composure. “How nice to see you here. I trust you’re doing well for yourself.”  
  
“Indeed my lord,” the Valelord said with a shallow smile. “It’s always a pleasure to serve the rightful king. I’m sure you can agree.”  
  
_Littlefucker_ , Mathis thought sourly, _the mockingbird’s found another nest to sing from_ , but his attention was already turning to more important people. “Prince Oberyn, it’s been a long time.”  
  
The Red Viper smiled. “Yes, the tournament at Highgarden I believe. Where Lord Willas was hurt. How is he doing by the way?”  
  
Mathis shrugged. “I haven’t seen Lord Willas in a long time, almost a whole years now.”  
  
“A pity,” the Prince said, he turned to present a small young woman. “My niece, Princess Arianne.”  
  
“Lord Mathis,” the Dornish Princess smiled sweetly.  
  
“Princess,” Mathis bowed in his saddle, forcing himself to ignore the shot of pain from his wounded leg. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”  
  
Arianne laughed. “It’s rained nearly every day since we landed at Weeping Town.”  
  
“The Rainwood is well named Princess.” Mathis turned back to Prince Oberyn. “Have you taken Blackhaven?”  
  
The Red Viper shook his head. “I left two thousand men under Lord Yronwood to lay siege and guard our rear.”  
  
A commotion caused the crowd of Dornishmen and Reachmen to part. Riding through the crowd was a young man with black steel armour, silver hair, and a circlet of gold on his head. He was flanked by two others, a greying man with a red beard and griffins on his surcoat rode to his right, and a portly balding man in plain armour and golden arm rings, on his the left. The young man spurred his horse ahead of the older men. “Lord Mathis! Be welcome to my army and my court!”  
  
“Your Grace,” Mathis bowed, the effort straining his leg again. “Lord Connington,” Mathis turned to the third man. “And?”  
  
“Ser Harry Strickland,” the portly man said. “Captain-General of the Golden Company.”  
  
“And this,” the King Aegon waved a hand at a knight in a white cloak. “Is Ser Rolly Duckfield, the first of my kingsguard.”  
  
“A pleasure,” Mathis said courteously. _A sellsword in a white cloak_ , _still ten times better than what Robert packed his kingsguard with_.  
  
“Pleasant as all this is,” an officer of the Golden Company with pox scars and a hole in his cheek leaned forward in his saddle. “Perhaps we should be talking about the siege instead of trading pleasantries?”  
  
“Quite right,” King Aegon said. “If you would my lords let us go to council.” Aegon pulled his steed around and began the ride back to camp.  
  
They retired to a large cloth-of-gold pavilion surrounded by gilded skulls mounted on poles. King Aegon took the chair at the head of the table and was flanked by Jon Connington and Harry Strickland. The divide in the camp was already present and was painfully obvious. On the king’s left sat the officers of the Golden Company, a mismatched mix of cutthroats, foreigners, exiles, and the sons of exiles. On Aegon’s right were the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, Jon Connington, Princess Arianne, her Dornish lords, Prince Oberyn who lazed in a chair beside his niece, and a hard looking woman Mathis supposed was one of the Sand Snakes. Mathis and some of his Reachmen, chiefly Ser Raymond Redding, Lord Torwood Middlebury, Lord Bart Risley, and Lord Ronald Uffering, now joined King Aegon’s council as well. Though there was only room for Mathis and Ser Raymond to sit. The rest stood around with some of the Dornish lords and lesser officers of the Golden Company.  
  
“My lords,” King Aegon said. “Please let us welcome the arrival of Lord Mathis Rowan and his loyalists from the Reach.” A polite round of applause rose from the assembled council. “I hope it is not presumptuous of me to ask if you would accept a place on my Small Council once the war is done?”  
  
“Your Grace,” Mathis rose and bowed. “Of course I accept such a great honour.”  
  
The King smiled broadly and glanced at Lord Jon before speaking further. “The honour is mine,” he turned to the Spider, but a hand and a quiet word from Jon Connington stopped him from saying anything. Instead, the king turned to the rest of the council. “Now please my lords, knights, and commanders now that our host is gathered we must plan for the next steps in the restoration.”  
  
Harry Strickland spoke first. “So long as Stonehelm and Blackhaven stand our path of retreat into the Red Mountains is not secure.”  
  
“You already plan to retreat?” Jon Connington asked.  
  
“I plan for the worst,” Harry Strickland said mildly. “And hope for the best.”  
  
Another Golden Company man shrugged. “We’ll have time to siege these castles will we not? Stannis is in King’s Landing it would be most foolish for him to waste his effort to march for the sake of a pair of castles.”  
  
“Aye,” a Summer Islander said. “Myr and Tyrosh wouldn’t risk their armies for the sake of some forts or vassal cities, not if victory wasn’t assured.”  
  
“That is Essos,” Mathis said. “This is Westeros. Stannis will come at us with all haste and all the strength he has in King’s Landing and that he can raise along the way. It might mean little for a Free City to lose some forts but the Stormlands and their lords are the heart of Stannis’ power he can’t allow us to run rampant over them.”  
  
“Lord Varys,” Jon Connington turned his blue eyes to the Spider. “Do you agree?”  
  
“Stannis,” Varys said. “Is still troubled by rebels in the West, the Reach, the North, and the Iron Islands. Were it anyone else I should think that reports of pirates, Dornish raiders, and bandits would be dismissed as hearsay. A mere distraction, perhaps a ruse, or else not worth the time it would take to crush them. But this is Stannis Baratheon we speak of. It is not lightly I say this but of all the kings Stannis was the only one to truly worry Lord Tywin, and he was not a man to worry lightly.”  
  
“Had Lord Tywin worried a little more perhaps he would still be alive.” Harry Strickland said as he leaned down to massage his foot. “Whatever happened there anyway? All we heard across the Narrow Sea were rumours that Mace Tyrell had gone mad with ambition.”  
  
Attention once more turned to Mathis. He shook his head. “I have no knowledge of what really happened that night. My wound and milk of the poppy ensured that I was deep asleep.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter, what’s done is done. Lord Petyr,” Jon Connington spoke to the Valelord. “You claim to have friends in the Vale do you not? Can we expect much support from there?”  
  
Littlefinger flicked at his little beard as he answered. “There is support, and then there is support. If you mean knights, bowmen, castles, and armoured hosts, then I fear you must look elsewhere. Lord Royce has too much influence and too much prestige to let my friends go to war for our king. But there are other ways to support the rightful king. I can say that aside from Royce and his closest allies no Valemen will march against us. “Further,” he smiled. “Lord Varys is far from the only one with, hmm, little birds. Lord Royce brought more than a few of mine with him when he took up residence in Stannis’ court.”  
  
Varys said nothing, though Mathis suspected the eunuch was all but ready to tear Littlefinger’s head off. _No lands_ , _no knights_ , _nothing but his spies and his words_ , _and Littlefinger’s beating him at both_. Mathis felt little sympathy for the Spider. _The rot in Aery’s reign began with Varys_. _Better for everyone that he not have too much sway over King Aegon_. “So what do your spies say?”  
  
“Stannis is quickly preparing to march,” he said. “He means to bring most of his host with him.”  
  
“How many is that?” Tristan Rivers asked  
  
Petyr Baelish shrugged. “Greater than thirty thousand men to start with, and he’ll gather more on the way, reinforcements from his garrisons in the Reach and what the Stormlords have left to spare.”  
  
“We’ll likely be outnumbered then,” Harry Strickland groused.  
  
“Are the Golden Company not the finest soldiers in the world?” Jon Connington asked. “Surely Stannis doesn’t frighten you.”  
  
The Captain-General spread his hands. “I only stated a fact.”  
  
Prince Oberyn leaned forward. “Not badly outnumbered, and the Red Mountains are good terrain to defend in. Thousands of years of war between Dorne, the Reach, and the Stormlands have proved that.”  
  
“The Stormlanders will know the mountains almost as well as my men do,” Lord Ulrick Wyl said. “The mountains could prove more dangerous to us than to the Stormlanders.”  
  
Harry Stickland shrugged. “In any case, I don’t think this siege should continue much longer. We should offer Lord Swann terms.”  
  
“Terms!” Jon Connington spat. “The siege has barely begun, and you want to offer terms.”  
  
“Please,” King Aegon raised a hand. “Let Ser Harry explain himself.”  
  
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Harry Strickland. “It’s simple, the time spent laying siege to Stonehelm would be better spent securing our line of retreat through the Red Mountains, and into the Reach. If Stonehelm should happen not to fall, then we will be caught between Stannis and the walls.”  
  
“We have yet to even try an assault or use the dragons,” Jon Connington protested.  
  
Mathis perked up slightly. “Dragons? How many?”  
  
Harry Strickland shared a look with his captains before answering. “Five dragons and three hundred hand-dragons.”  
  
“My father has sent a hundred Dornish dragonmen as well,” Princess Arianne said quickly.  
  
“We can fight Stannis at his own game now,” Aegon said with a smile.  
  
_Not well enough I fear_ , Mathis thought, though he said nothing aloud.  
  
“We have only so much powder and ammunition for the dragons,” one of the Golden Company commanders, a Summer Islander said. “We should conserve it not waste it here.”  
  
Harry Strickland nodded. “We lose nothing by offering terms,” the other Golden Company men and more than a few lords offered their agreement.  
  
“Prince Oberyn, Princess Arianne,” Jon Connington turned to the Dornish for support. “What say you?”  
  
The Red Viper shrugged and said nothing, leaving his niece to speak for them. “I agree with Ser Harry, we lose nothing and have much to gain.”  
  
Mathis leaned forward. “If I may, Lord Guilian is a cautious man we can perhaps use that. A demonstration of the power the dragons possess may be sufficient to convince him to surrender. By now he’ll have heard rumours at least of what feats the dragons have wrought.”  
  
“Tis a foolish thing,” Lord Jon Connington argued. “We should make an example of him and his.”  
  
“And ensure no one would ever surrender again?” Harry Strickland asked. “Pah, if we can take the castle why bother shedding more blood?”  
  
“Stannis will learn too much about the army,” Jon Connington countered.  
  
“Was every raven shot down?” Mathis asked. The following silence was answer enough for him. “Then Stannis most likely already knows much about the host.”  
  
“My lords,” Princess Arianne said suddenly. “Before we go making an example of some poor rocks with the dragons. I have an idea.”  
  
_Dornish ideas rarely end well_ , Mathis thought. _At least I’m not on the receiving end_.  
  
The next day Mathis stalked behind the line of dragons set up to barrage the walls of Stonehelm. Nearly two dozen long black shafts rested on a platform built on the hard ground on a rise overlooking the River Slayne. A direct shot at the white and black walls of House Swann’s citadel. A fearsome sight to be sure, though the effect was ruined when upon close inspection it was revealed that all but five of the dragons were simply logs that had been painted black. In the night, as the Golden Company and their foreign experts had set up their dragons, hundreds of other men worked for hours on the trees the Dornish had cut for firewood and siege materials.  
  
“Trust the Dornish to think of bringing logs to a battle,” Mathis muttered.  
  
“If I didn’t know better I’d think you sounded impressed,” Prince Oberyn said from behind Mathis.  
  
“It’s equal parts impressed and scandalized actually. It’s hardly chivalrous.”  
  
“Chivalry doesn’t win battles.”  
  
“True,” Mathis allowed. “But it certainly makes for a better song.”  
  
The Red Viper chuckled darkly as he stepped up beside Mathis. “I think more than a few songs will be made about this.”  
  
“Do you think it’ll work?”  
  
He yawned. “My niece is more like my brother than she’d care to admit,” the Red Viper chuckled again. “Yes, it’ll work.”  
  
Sure enough, a rider left Stonehelm within the hour to offer terms. Three hours of negotiations followed before they agreed to terms. Stonehelm was not to be looted, its people would not be harmed, and Lord Swann and his garrison would be allowed to retreat north. At Lord Jon’s insistence, all the men who left Stonehelm were required to be blindfolded as they passed through the lines of the besieging host. In total, nearly half a thousand armed men left the castle. Led by their lord they journeyed north to where their king was no doubt waiting for them. The highest ranked lords and commanders were quickly allocated rooms and chambers inside the castle. As a great lord and a member of the Small Council Mathis was granted a large chamber high on the seaward side of the keep.  
  
When evening fell Mathis settled down to sleep within his chamber. He sighed, grateful to have a proper bed for the first time in months. Mathis spent nearly half an hour watching the shadows spread across the Red Mountains and the Sea of Dorne as the sun fell to the west. He felt a pang in his heart, he missed the sunsets in Goldengrove, where the fields shone like gold in the evening light. With a heavy sigh, he limped to bed and shrugged on a sheet. He fell asleep hoping to dream of Goldengrove, of laughing children, and his smiling wife. Instead, there were only corpses, crows, and a terrible storm. The same nightmare came again, but different… now the thunder spoke a booming terrible sound that shook the earth. _The Everstorm Comes_.

 

Quentyn  
  
He held onto the spar of broken wood with swollen and sunburned fingers. His back was raw from sun and salt, burning constantly as the waves Summer Sea swelled over his body. In a time like this, all that Quentyn could do was reflect on the path that had brought him here. It had started with a secret midnight conversation in Sunspear with his father.  
  
“Whatever the truth of your cousin, my supposed nephew,” Prince Doran had said. “Dorne must look for other options as well. Go to the east, to Slaver’s Bay, and present yourself to Daenerys. Wed her if you can, but do all you can to bring her back to Westeros. The fate of Dorne is in your hands my son.”  
  
Quentyn had knelt beside his princely father’s bed and had taken his hand with its joints swollen with gout. “I will not fail father. I swear it.”  
  
He and his companions Ser Cletus Yronwood, Ser Gerris Drinkwater, Ser Willam Wells, Ser Archibald Yronwood, and Maester Kedry had left Sunspear a bare half hour later, to taken ship for Volantis at Plankytown. Quentyn had known even then that his sister would be doing much the same as him in only a few weeks.  
  
Their trip to Volantis was mostly calm, save for a brief squall that forced them off course for a part of the third day. Volantis was less peaceful, they were besieged in the room of a small inn by the endless barrage of mosquitoes, while they searched for a passage to the east. Finding a ship wasn't a problem, finding a ship willing to take passengers was. Most of the vessels were already packed with sellswords who'd been hired by the masters of Meereen and Yunkai. Men who would do their best to kill Daenerys before Quentyn could reach her. For a few days they tried to join one of the free companies, but then Ser Archibald Yronwood and Maester Kedry both came down with a fever. They grew so weak and sickly that they couldn’t walk and could barely even move. So their voyage was delayed as Quentyn, Gerris, Cletus, and William spent their carefully hoarded coin on healers.  
  
Despite the money they charged, the Volantene healers could do nothing for their sick friends. “It’s a mosquito fever,” the third healer had said. “It always seems to hurt you Andals the most,” he shook his head. “Either he will live or he will die. There’s nothing I can do for him.” That healer had not charged them anything.  
  
True to his word Ser Archibald had died in a sweaty deluded nightmare within the week and Maester Kedry died only a day later. Quentyn, Cletus, Gerris, and William had taken their bodies to a small sept near the harbour and buried him in the equally small graveyard. The septon, a half Ghiscari former slave with seven pointed stars tattooed on his cheeks, prayed in the Common Tongue with a strong Volantene accent over both of them. “Seven above take him, your servant, into your arms and with your holy light bless him and comfort him.”  
  
Quentyn and his companions paid their respects one by one, then returned to their room. “A toast,” Cletus said. “To the Big Man.”  
  
“To the Big Man,” they echoed.  
  
“To Kedry,” Quentyn said.  
  
“To Kedry,” the others repeated.  
  
As one the four friends drank their sweet Volantene wine.  
  
By that time, almost all the sellswords had already departed Volantis, and they had begun to despair of taking a ship to the east when the priest had arrived. He was a huge man with skin as black as pitch, a belly huge and hard like a boulder. His tangled white hair and beard looked like a lion's mane around his face, red-yellow tattoos of fire covered his cheeks and forehead. In his huge hand was an iron staff topped with a dragon’s head that spat green sparks.  
  
“Men of the Sunset Lands,” the priest had said. “The Lord of Light has shown you to me in the flames. May I come in?”  
  
_We should have thrown him back onto the street_. Quentyn coughed weakly, licking his lips in a vain hope for moisture. The priest had said he had foreseen that they would journey together and reach Slaver’s Bay. He’d lied. Their voyage from Volantis has started smoothly enough, fair winds and calm seas had them moving south and then east as they skirted around the ruined lands of Valyria. The ship and her captain, both traders out of Braavos, had even proved to be excellent hosts, the cabins were clean, the food was decent, and there was even a singer. But three weeks out of Volantis a sudden and violent storm had risen from the Summer Sea. The great walls of wind, water, and thunder had rushed against them and sent the ship crashing into the deep. All the while as the storm whipped around them, the ship shuddered and shook the red priest had kept singing from his place on the bow.  
  
He didn’t know if his friends had died when the ship had gone down, he didn’t know if any of the crew had survived, and he didn’t know if the damnable red priest had survived. All Quentyn knew was that somewhere in that nightmare he’d taken hold of a spar of wood, and hadn’t let go. When the storm passed, he was floating alone in the blue waters of the Summer Sea. That had been two days ago he couldn’t last another.  
  
He bobbed up and down with the gentle waves it was a beautiful day. A tall wave lifted him high above the rest of the water, and Quentyn opened his salt crusted eyes squinting against the sun, and its reflection off the shining blue sea. His heart skipped a beat, and a moan escaped his lips, a ship had crept over the horizon. _They could be pirates_ , he thought, _they could be slavers_. For a second the thought crossed Quentyn’s mind that he should stay silent and still, let the ship pass him by. But only death waited down that path. Quentyn groaned and shifted, he kicked his exhausted legs, trying to move closer to the ship. Gradually the ship grew closer. It seemed that the gods had chosen to send it in Quentyn’s direction.  
  
“Help,” he cried weakly. “Help.” he waved a sunburned arm and splashed the water. “Mother have mercy, “ he prayed. “Please see me.” The ship shifted slightly and began to sail toward him. It was close enough now that Quentyn could see the oars rise and fall. “Thank you,” he said to the ship and to the Seven above.  
  
The plain, salt stained grey sails hung limply in the humid air. Closer and closer it came. Five hundred yards, three hundred yards, one hundred yards. Fifty yards from Quentyn the oars were raised, and a man with a rope tied around his waist jumped into the sea and began swimming toward Quentyn. The ship slowly drifted onward.  
  
The man wrapped strong arms around Quentyn, shifting their bodies so he would support Quentyn. The sailors on the ship began to pull the rope back. To Quentyn this all passed in a haze, he felt the water wash over him but wasn’t truly aware of it. Quentyn was surprised when he was finally pulled from the sea and was laid down on the hot wood of the deck. A man put a skin into his mouth and lifted it letting Quentyn drink the fresh water. Quentyn coughed and sputtered at first, but quickly seized the waterskin with both hands and drank greedily.  
  
“Easy,” a gravelly voiced man said. “Too much and you’ll spit it all back up.”  
  
_Easy_ , the word seemed to echo in Quentyn’s mind. The world began to turn dark around the edges. Quentyn looked up onto the faces of his rescuers. They were big men, most with large beards, many had axes or knives at their side, and most were shirtless in the hot sun. Only one man wore a coat with a House’s badge, a black leviathan on a grey sea. _House Volmark_ , Quentyn thought as unconsciousness consumed him, _Ironmen_.  
  
He woke below decks swinging on a hammock. He tried to rise to his feet, but a powerful hand pushed him back down. “Stay still, your still lacking water. You’d just fall down and crack your skull.” The man reached and grabbed something, then presented a cup. “Here, drink this.” The man pressed the cup to Quentyn’s lips and fresh warm water flow into Quentyn’s mouth.  
  
“Where am I?” Quentyn asked, cradling the cup of water in his hands like a holy talisman.  
  
“On my ship, _Swift Blow_ sailing the Summer Sea if’n you don’t remember that.”  
  
“No… I… I do,” Quentyn said, raising a weak arm to rub his forehead, and looked to see his saviour. The captain was seated on a simple stool was a short but powerful man, with a chest, arms, and belly like barrels. His head was shaved, and a huge brown beard covered his chest. He wore no armour only a tight cotton shirt that seemed too small for his own bulging body. Quentyn pulled himself slightly upright and bowed awkwardly in the hammock. “My lord,” he said.  
  
“I ain’t no lord,” the captain said. “Just a captain, Urri the Barrel, they call me.” He arched an eyebrow. “What’s your name?”  
  
Quentyn shifted slightly. “Lewyn,” he said. “My name’s Lewyn Wyst.” He took the name with a small house in service to House Dalt of Lemonwood.  
  
Urri leaned forward. “And how’d you find yourself out here?”  
  
Quentyn paused a second to think quickly, covering it by taking a drink from the cup. “I’m a steward in service to Ser Deziel Dalt. He fancies himself the next Sea Snake and sent me to make trade contacts in the east.”  
  
“Sea Snake?” Urri seemed confused. “You mean like Nagga?”  
  
“Uh, no, no like Corlys Velaryon the old Lord of Driftmark during the Dance. He was a great trader and sailor he travelled all the way to Yi Ti.”  
  
Urri shook his head and spat on the bare planks of the deck. “If your Ser Dezial wanted to pay the gold price in Yi Ti he should have gone himself, instead of sending you. Ah but that isn't your fault, just doing your duty like we all must eh?”  
  
“Yes,” Quentyn said quietly. “Just doing my duty.”  
  
“Well,” Urri stretched. “You know much about sailing?”  
  
“Not much,” Quentyn said quickly.  
  
“Fighting?” Urri asked hopefully.  
  
“I was trained by the master at arms of Lemonwood when I was young. Though I’m not the best with a blade.”  
  
Urri shrugged. “A blade in a hand is worth a hundred in the hold,” he stood and grabbed Quentyn by the arm. “Come on. We’ll get you one.” With a single heave, the Ironman captain pulled Quentyn straight from his hammock. Using Urri as a crutch the two men made their way through the hold.  
  
“I thought, maybe you’d make me a thrall,” Quentyn said as he walked with the captain.  
  
“I reckon it’s a good omen from the Drowned God to rescue a man at sea. It’d be bad luck to make you a thrall and clean my boots. Nah, we’ll give you a blade and have you learn the ropes, knots, and the ship to keep you busy. When the time comes, you’ll earn your keep with blood and steel.”  
  
“When the times comes?”  
  
“We’re heading to fight lad. That’s not exactly what the Lord Captain says but that’s what I reckon.”  
  
“Where. Where are we heading?”  
  
“Slaver’s Bay.”  
  
Quentyn couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Hah! That’s, that’s where I was going.”  
  
“Hah!” Urri laughed in turn and slapped Quentyn on the back. “You see, the Drowned God has a plan for us all. Here we are,” Urri said as he pushed aside a thin sheet to reveal a small room crowded with spare weapons and armour. “Take your pick.”  
  
Many of the weapons showed signs of mild neglect, dull edges and the occasional spot of rust. In the end, Quentyn picked out a short spear and a short, broad bladed sword from amongst the various weapons that both seemed to be in good condition. He swayed slightly as he turned back to Urri. “What now?”  
  
“Now I make a sailor out of you.”  
  
Quentyn worked long and hard for a dozen days and a dozen nights on the ship. Urri and his crew had been scouting ahead of the main fleet and were now meeting up with them in the Gulf of Grief, at the southern tip of the Isle of Cedars. Hauling ropes burned his muscles like they hadn’t burned in years, he fell to sleep aching every night in a hold crowded with two dozen other men. The rest of the crew was standoffish to Quentyn, but not unfriendly, he was an outsider but not a wholly unwelcome one. The most indifferent seemed to regard him as nothing more than a good luck charm that could walk. However, Urri seemed to take great pleasure in taking Quentyn under his wing and, quite literally, teaching him the ropes.  
  
Almost two weeks since his rescue the _Swift Blow_ took land on the southernmost tip of the Isle of Cedars. They beached the ship in a sheltered cove, and the crew took to land. A trio of archers disappeared inland and returned an hour later with a pair of fat wild pigs that were cooked over a bonfire. Red juice flowed down his chin and into the scruffy beard he’d begun to grow, while dark ale and red wine flowed down his throat. The night deepened, and Quentyn joined the ironmen in dancing around the fire. They sang raucous songs that would've burned his ears had they not already been burning from drink. When morning broke the horizon was clear, and Quentyn’s head was dizzy with a hangover. He was forced to recover quickly, as Quentyn and the crew worked to haul supplies, water, meat, and timber, onboard _Swift Blow_. For two days he hauled supplies and cut his hands stripping the beached hull of barnacles and other sea life that clung to the wooden frame. As noon passed on the third day, the first ships were spotted on the horizon. As the sun descended those ships grew in number, and slowly grew from distant dots into dozens upon dozens of warships, bearing krakens, scythes, leviathans, warhorns, and a dozen other crests upon their sails and flags. Six hours past noon the first ships began to make landfall, half a mile north of _Swift Blow_.  
  
A few were trading vessels, cogs or small galleys, but most were lean and hard warships. Larger than a longboat, but smaller than a true war galley, they were fast and deadly like wolves or sharks. But the ship that dropped anchor offshore behind beside _Swift Blow_ was a far different beast, a fearsome war galley far too large to pull ashore like _Swift Blow_. Instead, a ship was lowered from the side, and part of the crew travelled to shore.  
  
The man at the prow of the boat was a large and powerful man, with a bull's broad chest and a hard flat stomach. His long black hair was flecked with grey and tied back with a leather cord. He was armoured in boiled black leather, heavy grey chain mail, and lobstered plate. His cloak was made of layers of cloth-of-gold cut into many strips that fell to his feet in their armoured boots. A longsword and a dirk were sheathed at his waist and in his right hand was a razor sharp axe. His helm lay in his left hand, for a moment Quentyn thought that the steel was formed into the shape of vines or snakes. But on closer look, it became clear that they twisting helm was made from the steel tentacles of a kraken. Behind him was the red priest, Moqorro, seemingly as healthy and hearty as ever, for all that he was dressed in red rags stained pink by seawater.  
  
The big man waved an arm at the crew of _Swift Blow_. “Urri! What have you seen?”  
  
“By the Drowned God m’lord empty seas and the King’s bride wait for you.”  
  
The big man frowned as he made shore beside _Swift Blow_.  
  
“Bride?” Quentyn asked quietly as the man approached.  
  
“King Euron means to wed and bed Daenerys Targaryen. Lord Victarion,” he pointed at the big man and smiled. “And we have been sent to fetch her.”  
  
Urri and Victarion embraced, the barrel shaped captain looked like a child compared to the massive bulk of Victarion Greyjoy. But Quentyn’s focus was on the red, pink, and black shadow behind the pair. Moqorro’s eyes were fixed on Quentyn, after a moment he tapped his staff on the ground, prompting a shower of green sparks, and leaned forward to whisper something in Victarion’s ear. An almost irresistible feeling rose inside Quentyn, he looked up again to watch the red priest. _You didn’t lie priest you said we’d get to Slaver’s Bay and we did_. _You just didn’t include my friends when you said we_. Quiet anger tightened around his heart.


	24. Interlude 2

**King on the Iron Throne:** Stannis Baratheon King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the One True King of Westeros, and Protector of the Realm

**Princess of Dragonstone:** Shireen Baratheon

**Queen on the Iron Throne:** Selyse Florent

**Small Council**

**Hand of the King:** Lord Alester Florent

**Master of Coin:** Lord Ardrian Celtigar

**Master of Laws:** Lord Yohn Royce

    Lord Commander of the City Watch of King's Landing: Ser Jacelyn Bywater

**Master of Whispers:** Melisandre of Asshai

**Master of Ships:** Lord Eldon Estermont

Admiral of the Royal Fleet: Ser Imry Florent

**Grand Maester:** Vacant (Duties performed by Maester Cressen)

**Lord Commander of Dragons:** Lord Justin Massey

**Lords Paramount**

**Lord of the North:** Lord Roose Bolton

**Lord of Reach:** Lord Alester Florent

**Lord of the Stormlands:** Dissolved, Storm's End is to be a royal fief

**Lord of the Westerlands:** Vacant (House Lannister attainted)

**Lord of the Riverlands:** Lord Edmure Tully

**Lord of the Vale:** Lord Robert Arryn

**Lord of the Iron Islands:** Vacant (House Greyjoy attainted)

**Prince of Dorne:** Vacant (House Martell attainted)

**Kingsguard:**

Lord Commander: Ser Richard Horpe

Ser Rolland Storm

Ser Robar Royce

Ser Timon the Scrapesword

Ser Emmon Cuy

Ser Andrew Estermont

Vacant

  
  


 

**The King from the East:** Aegon Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Betrothed to Arianne Martell.

**Small Council**

**Hand of the King:** Lord Jon Connington

**Master of Coin:** Lord Petyr Baelish

**Master of Whispers:** Lord Varys

**Captain-General of the Golden Company:** Ser Harry Strickland

**Advisor:** Lord Mathis Rowan

**Advisor:** Prince Oberyn Martell

**Advisor:** Princess Arianne Martell

**Master of Ships:** Vacant

**Master of Laws:** Vacant

**Grand Maester:** Vacant

**Lords Paramount**

**Lord of the North:** Vacant (House Stark attainted)

**Lord of Reach:** Lord Willas Tyrell (Mathis Rowan is Warden of the South)

**Lord of the Stormlands:** Vacant (House Baratheon attainted)

**Lord of the Westerlands:** Vacant (House Lannister attanted)

**Lord of the Riverlands:** Offered to Lord Edmure Tully

**Lord of the Vale:** Lord Robert Arryn

**Lord of the Iron Islands:** Vacant (House Greyjoy attainted)

**Prince of Dorne:** Prince Doran Martell

**Kingsguard:**

Lord Commander: Ser Rolly Duckfield

Vacant

Vacant

Vacant

Vacant

Vacant

Vacant


End file.
